


Deep Waters

by Chris_Quinton



Category: Celtic Mythology, Highlander - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Case Fic - Sort of, Loch Shiel, M/M, each-uisge [waterhorse], mention of rape and murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27121637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chris_Quinton/pseuds/Chris_Quinton
Summary: Methos is a wanderer, roaming the known world as the fancy takes him. In a highland village, women have been raped and murdered. The killer is a waterhorse, a monstrous shapeshifter. But when Methos meets the beast in its equine form, and then its man-shape, he knows it is innocent and he must find the killer before more women die. Then suspicion is turned on him and the hunter becomes the hunted.
Relationships: Methos/Donnchadh
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Deep Waters

**Author's Note:**

> Another fanfic I wrote many years ago, then rewrote to remove all Highlander content and had it published as Dark Waters. All rights have since returned to me, so here it is in [almost] its original form. Thank you for the reminder, Kittybrod!

"Don't take the road that runs by the loch," the monks advised. So did the Abbot of St. Columb's when he went to say his farewells and receive a blessing for the next phase of his journey. "There's a beast in the water that preys on lone travellers. Go down to the docks and find a boat that'll take you from Invereil to the Priory at Shielfoot by the sea route."

"But," he protested in his Eirinn-accented Gaelic, "if I go that way it'll put days on my journey." There were important letters in his pack from Rome and Athens and Constantinople, and a new missal fresh from the scriptorium at Lindisfarne. A certain monk in St. Finnan's would be waiting for them. He'd already travelled the length of the Great Glen from Inverness to Invereil, and Methos was not inclined to be put off from his chosen path.

"Better to arrive late than not at all," said the Holy Father, crossing himself. "I've poured holy water into Loch Shiel and prayed my throat raw, but the evil of the thing is too great. Only last November it took Ailsa MacAskill and her poor drowned body was washed ashore half-eaten."

Methos shook his head. "I'll take the shorter path," he said.

"The folly of youth," and the old man sighed. "Then find a companion to journey with you. Go with God, my son."

"Thank you, Father," Methos said, and collected his horse from the abbey's stable.

"Don't take the road by the loch," said Brother Murdoch as he sent his novice to open the abbey gate for the departing traveller. "It's not safe for a man on his own."

"You're going by Loch Shiel?" The novice was a child still, years away from his final vows. "My da has a croft there, this side of Glenfinnan. Rory MacLeod. He'll give you a place to sleep if you tell him Aiden sent you." Then, "You carry a sword. Can't you kill it for us?"

Methos laughed and shook his head. "I'm no hero. You need a Finn or a Cuchullain for that. I'm just a traveller." He was a tall man, clean-shaven, lightly tanned, lean and young. His hair was dark brown, would have hung just past his shoulders if it wasn't tied back with a leather twist, and steady hazel eyes gazed at them with a wry amusement above an impressive prow of a nose. His clothing was nondescript: boots, jerkin and trews of leather fitting snugly enough, but well-worn. His sword was plain, the scabbard equally scuffed, and he wore it with the ease of long familiarity. He was clearly foreign, which probably explained his rashness. 

"Then find a hero with a blade like yours to guard your back," Brother Murdoch said grimly. "Or else you'll be bones in the each-uisge's belly. Go with God, Methos Traveller."

It was good advice. Methos didn't take it.

###

Some days later, Methos sat on a rock that jutted from the hillside and looked down on the upper reaches of Loch Shiel. It lay placid and gleaming under the evening sun, a long spear of water running southwest between the age-worn hills. The crags far above him were rocky and barren but for the ever-present heather, and in the middle ground, crofters could eke out a living grazing sheep. Below him the land was a green oasis, fed by three rivers, and most of the trees had been cleared back to make small fields. He'd travelled on horseback along Loch Eil from Invereil and through the pass into the Glen, and now the village of Glenfinnan was spread out before him on both sides of the River Finnan. The Keep, on its rocky promontory at the head of the loch, looked as if it had grown from the bones of the land, and not built by human hands at all.

To the southwest the shores were dark with pine and deciduous forest mixed. Tomorrow his path lay across the Callop Bridge and along the water's edge towards that forest. But tonight he had a proper bed in the small croft-house behind him: a pallet stuffed with sweet heather laid out near Rory MacLeod's hearth, and his horse was drowsing hip-slack in the paddock with the crofter's evil-tempered hill-pony.

Aiden's father was a little over average height, raw-boned and weathered. His dark hair and beard were streaked with grey, and the lines on his face made him seem older than perhaps he was. That night, he had much to say on the each-uisge, and since Rory was otherwise a level-headed man, Methos listened.

After the telling of the tall tales in front of the fragrant peat fire, with a dram or two of uisge beatha to help it along, Rory laid out the facts that he was certain of--that he, personally, had seen. These were grim enough: remnants of cattle and sheep, and sometimes of humans, floating in the loch or lodged on the rocky shores. All of them had been torn apart by massive fangs, because this each-uisge did not have the teeth of a horse, but more like those of a great wolf.

'Probably,' Methos thought, 'because it was a wolf.' But he did not speak it aloud.

"It might have been a wolf," Rory went on, as if he'd caught the thought, "but at the places where they were last seen, were the prints of unshod hooves."

"Does no one around here own a horse, then?"

"Of course they do. Iain MacLeod yonder in the Keep. Our chieftain. He has a stable full of them, and none of them out to pasture when the prints were left. But don't go asking him questions. Some five years ago, it took his young son, and him barely thirteen years." Rory leaned forward and with the poker he drew in the spread of ash from the hearth. It was an almost perfect circle, some five inches across, with the shape of the frog marked in. "That's about the size of it, left by the monster that took the lad. No pony would leave a sign like that."

"No," Methos agreed. If Rory's drawing was accurate, he judged that the animal would stand about sixteen hands, nearly two hands taller than his own chestnut. "Are you sure of this?"

"I'm sure." Rory took a swallow of his whisky. "I found the poor bairn, or what was left of him. Found the place where the thing had enticed the lad onto its back, and tracked it straight to the water's edge. The boy's body came ashore the next day. That was when they had the Abbot across from Invereil, but it didn't help young Ailsa, nor the two before her." Rory laid more peat on the fire. "Now, here's the thing," he said slowly. "Not all the prints were the same, but no one listened to me. With the lassies, all they saw was their torn bodies and that was enough. The hoof prints were unshod, but smaller, each time a horse closer to your gelding's height. They'd been raped as well as mutilated, and hacked, not bitten. But no one would see and no one listened!" 

He fell silent, staring into the incense-sweet peat smoke. Methos did not speak. It was obvious that Rory had nursed his suspicions for a long time and the death of the girl was the final piece in the puzzle. "I don't think it was the each-uisge that did it. Yes, it killed stock, and yes, it killed the young MacLeod, and half a dozen or so other folk over my lifetime, but Ailsa wasn't one of them. Nor was Mairi. Nor was Fiona. It was a man, I'm sure of it, using the waterhorse to cover his murdering tracks. The beast doesn't rape, it hunts and feeds." He gave a short bark of bitter laughter. "It's an honest beast."

"How long has it hunted here?"

"Years. Centuries. They don't grow old like you and me," Rory said. He was scratching out the image of the hoof print and didn't see the smile that swiftly came and went. "I thank God young Aiden's safe at the Abbey. He's my youngest, and he was always too fond of daydreaming by the water. Now, I give no credence to some of the wild tales, Methos Traveller, but I know what I've seen. As for that murdering bastard, I'll keep watch and sooner or later he'll leave enough of a trail for me to track him. Even so, there's something uncanny in that loch. Be wise and stay away from it. You're welcome to a place here with me until a group of folk come along. There's safety in numbers."

"Thanks for that, but I can't. I have to be at St. Finnan's as soon as I can make it."

"Then I hope I won't be watching them bury what's left of you up at the kirk," Rory sighed, and poured them both more uisge beatha.

###

The road followed the shore of the loch, and was, for the most part, on the narrow strip of flood-plain; a strip that in some places was barely wide enough to travel, while in others the burns had cut deep ravines, forcing the road to a detour.

Few trees grew along the road; the soil cover was too thin for most of them, and boulders broke through the heather and bracken, their water-worn skins coated with moss and lichens. The scenery was stark, pared to its bones and beautiful. There was nothing lush save the occasional small treasure of a wild meadow, white with clover, and the scent of the flowers was as pure and clean as the air that bore it.

At noon, Methos stopped to rest his horse in the welcome shade of a rowan tree that grew on the edge of one of those meadows. It was a warm, lazy day, of the kind that happen in the late spring, a herald for the summer to come. The only thing that marred it was Alba's most voracious predator: the midge.

Less than a stone's throw away to one side was rising ground and the forest, mostly pine now. To Methos' other side was the loch, a cool temptation for his hot, itching skin and dry throat. But he could wait until he made his night-camp. Then he'd take a long, cleansing swim, and to Hel with any monstrous beast that might try to share the water with him.

The steady sound of his gelding ripping at the grass was almost hypnotic, and combined with the heady scent of clover and the sun's warmth, it invited sleep. Methos leaned back against the tree and toyed with the idea of dozing for a while. Then his horse gave an explosive snort and lurched away, stumbling in the hobbles. At the same time, an unmistakable sensation jarred through Methos' nerves and he came to his feet, reaching for his sword.

At the water's edge stood a horse. A riderless horse. It wore neither saddle nor bridle, and the glossy brown hide gleamed in the May sun. The mane and tail were long, very black and by the look of the wind-tangles in them had never known a grooming. The heavy stallion-neck swooped down to join strong shoulders, and arched ribs led on to powerful haunches. Long black legs and rounded hooves completed the picture of what to Methos was the perfect horse. Sharp ears were angled towards him, deep dark eyes were fixed on him, and the fine head was held high, nostrils flaring. The harsh whisper of power was like that when his aura touched another of his kind: like, but not exact.

Methos Traveller smiled, his eyes narrowed and watchful. He knew danger when he saw it.

"Gods, but you're magnificent," he said quietly. "I know you. I don't know who you are, but I know what you are." The horse gave a deep-throated grunt that was almost a snarl and took a pace towards him, its ears flattening against its skull, long neck snaking forward. "Waterhorse." He had an instant of warning as the muscles bunched, and he hurled himself away from the stallion's charge. Fast as he was, the narrow head whipped round and carnivore fangs clashed a scant hairsbreadth from his shoulder. Laughing, Methos put the slender grace of his rowan tree between himself and the creature. "If I'd have known this land had such wonders I'd have come here sooner."

It might have been his laughter, or his lack of fear, or perhaps it sensed the aura about him, but the stallion stopped in its tracks and its ears flicked forward. He was being studied, assessed by a keen mind.

"So, I'm something new, am I?" Methos drawled softly. "I've not met the likes of you before, either. I can see how you'd entice someone onto your back. You're the finest beast I've seen in many a year, but you won't be chewing on my bones, nag."

The ears twitched back and it came towards him, pacing slowly. He was not deceived; he'd already seen it could move with the speed of a striking snake for all its size. Reluctantly, Methos drew his sword and the waterhorse paused.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said. "Go back to your loch and leave me alone." He stepped out from his shelter, blade held ready. "I've a long journey ahead of me, and I'd sooner not fight you."

Again the ears flicked forward. The gesture was purely equine, but the growing curiosity in the steady gaze was not.

"Go back." He moved closer, and stopped with his sword point only a few feet from the broad chest. It was more than a little risky and it put him perilously close to those murderous hooves and teeth, but it also enabled him to see more clearly the intelligence in the beast's eyes. "Don't you know a sword will kill you?" he snapped. "And you, my splendid fool, cannot kill me."

The waterhorse wrinkled its upper lip, scenting him. As a sneer, it was monumental. It came forward until the point of the sword was almost touching it, and Methos could smell the lightness of clover, as if it had rolled in a meadow. The eyes were challenging him now, daring him to chance his speed against its swiftness for the first strike, and Methos laughed again. "Shall we call it a draw between us, then?" he suggested. "We go our separate ways and agree not to harm each other?"

It would be so easy just to grab a handful of mane and swing up onto that sleek back--Methos got hold of the impulse and smothered it, easing back a pace. At the same time the waterhorse retreated a short way.

They matched each other step for step, until Methos was on the road and the stallion hock-deep in the loch. Then the each-uisge turned and plunged into deeper water, sending up twin wings of spray. Feeling oddly disappointed, Methos called his horse to him and soothed its sweaty fear. He took off the hobbles, tightened the girth and mounted, and started southeast again.

At nightfall, Methos did not swim in the loch. Instead he found a small burn and after he'd tickled a couple of trout for his supper, he bathed in one of its deeper pools. Then he sat at his fire with his hair loose and drying across his shoulders and thought of waterhorses while he waited for his meal to cook.

As before, the chestnut gelding gave him warning: a sudden start and snort. At the same instant Methos felt the brush of-- He looked up and saw the creature just outside the ring of firelight, watching him.

"Are you hunting?" he said. "I'd offer you a meal, but it's a portion of trout. Cooked trout. The people of Japan may eat their fish raw but I prefer--" The sharp-pointed ears came forward and he paused. "Is that for the meal or sheer curiosity? Japan? Have you never heard of it? Islands far from here, with a tradition that honours honour and loyalty."

For hours Methos talked of Japan, China, India, finding a strange kind of humour in taking the role of Sheherazade. The waterhorse came no closer, offered no threat, just stood hipslack and listening.

At some point in the night, Methos fell asleep where he sat. He woke with the dawn, stiff and cold, and wondering if his visitor had been real or dream-born. The imprints of unshod hooves around his small camp showed it was solid enough.

###

"You made good time." Brother Darius smiled. "No set-backs at all?"

"None. The winds were cooperative from Lindisfarne to Inverness. The roads were passable, just. No robbers, no raiding parties to avoid. But I did meet a waterhorse on the Loch Shiel road."

Darius looked up from his new missal, startled. "A--? I've collected many stories, of course, but I've never seen one." He sounded envious, and Methos smiled. "What was it like?" It was legends of the Sidhe that had drawn the monk to this northern land several years ago, and as far as Methos knew, they had proved to be more than elusive.

"Beautiful. Splendid. A horse I'd kill armies for. But it didn't snare me and we came to an agreement, a truce of sorts."

"Did you see its human form?"

"No, just the animal; a bay stallion with a coat of mahogany and a mane and tail of black silk. With knots in it. The thing was in dire need of a good grooming."

"I'd have loved to have been there," Darius said with a sigh.

"There are local tales of it taking a man's form, but no one seems to have seen it, just the evidence." He frowned, remembering Rory's account. "Women taken, raped and dismembered, but I've heard from one who had no cause to lie that those butcherings were done with a blade, not teeth." He shrugged, dismissing it. "And so the legends grow," he finished lightly.

"And not just of waterhorses," Father Darius said, slowly turning the bright pages of the missal. "You've heard of the selkie? Supposedly, if a man was to steal their pelt while they're in their human form, they cannot go back to their seal-shape. Perhaps the same would hold for a waterhorse? Is this a kelpie of the rivers, or an each-uisge of the lochs?"

"There's a difference?" Methos asked, idly watching the drifting pages.

"Oh, yes. You'd as well compare a feral dog to a wolf. Both are dangerous, but one more so than the other."

"And they eat human flesh."

The monk nodded. "Or sheep, or cow, fish, fowl, whatever they can catch. Or so it is said."

"You do not believe they exist," Methos said.

Darius chuckled. "I have not lived your years, my ancient friend, but I have seen some strange things. And some legends are real enough, as you well know. I do not disbelieve these tales of waterhorses, though I'd say they grow taller and more vivid with each telling. But how they would fit into our story, if at all, I cannot judge without talking with one."

"I saw a stallion the like of which a Prince of Arabia would sell his soul to possess," Methos said, "where such a horse should never be. It had neither saddle or bridle, and it was no gentle beast. There was a thinking mind inside that skull, and the Abbot of St. Columb's had no success banishing it."

"So, then, what will you do about this killer?"

"Me?" He was startled. "Nothing. Why should I? It's nothing to me that a lake-born monster is eating crofters, or that a man is murdering in its name."

"You'll want to avoid that road, then. I have a letter for Sister Mary-Joseph in Inverness, and a package for Brother Richard in Rhodes."

"Avoid it? Why?" he said. "All I'll need is some protection. Just in case."

"That would be wise," Darius agreed. "If half the legends are true, the Sidhe are subtle and deadly. Since this waterhorse seems to be unimpressed by holy water and prayers, I suggest you try cold iron. Or you could weave a spell to keep it at bay. But it's not your each-uisge that concerns me. It's the human beast. He'll kill again, you understand, and more frequently."

Methos refused to meet the monk's grey-blue gaze. He knew the pattern as well as Darius; they both had seen it played out often enough over the long years of their lives. "Very likely," he said with something of a snap, "but it's no concern of mine."

###

"Weave a spell," the monk had suggested. It was something on which he had a great deal of knowledge, garnered from many travels and as many cultures, but a spell could often be very much a hit or miss effort. Still, it would do no harm to try.

Methos gathered nettles and retted them for days in shallow water, then hammered the rot-soft stalks until the fibres were bare. He washed and combed them, over and again, so that they were as supple and strong as coarse silk. With a ball of clay and a switch of rowan wood he made a spindle, and spun the nettle-flax and his intent into a long thread. He divided the thread into three lengths and those lengths he braided, locking in the need, then knotted off each end so that it wouldn't fray apart. Then he dyed it, using amongst other things, dried and pulverised rowanberries from Darius' store-cupboard. When the thong dried, it was about nine inches in length and the red of old blood, and potent.

Brother Darius looked over his shoulder as he lifted it to the light. "I see," the monk said wisely. "A binding. You decided against protection after all."

Methos shrugged. "I thought you'd care to see it," he said casually.

"Oh, indeed," Darius said, and managed to keep his face straight. "Your waterhorse must have made quite an impression."

"I've not seen a finer animal," he admitted. "I'll bring him to you and you can judge for yourself. I wonder what its man-shape is like, if it has one."

"Be careful, Methos," Darius said. "There are creatures in this world more strange than our kind, and more lethal."

"I will be," he said. And smiled, because there were things that even Darius was not aware of. "I'm always careful."

"Hah," said Darius, and smiled, because he knew this man better than most. "You could always take ship and sail the northern sea-route around to Inverness, rather than ride back through the glens."

"I'm not fond of boats," Methos said, as Darius had guessed he would. "I'll ride where I can."

###

Methos' journey was uneventful, and he made good time travelling west to east along Loch Shiel. A few days after leaving the Abbey, his gelding cast a shoe, so he made an early camp on the edge of the forest a stone's throw from the loch, and not far from the place he'd used before.

He'd brought down a couple of grouse with his slingshot on the way, and now they were roasting on a makeshift greenwood spit over the embers, their juices hissing where they dripped into the heat. The smell was making his mouth water, and for a while Methos forgot about a possible danger. Then his horse began to move restlessly on its tether, and a familiar pressure grew in his head.

From behind him came the muted thud of unshod hooves on the dense mat of fallen pine needles that covered the ground, and the brush of low-hanging branches on a large body. Seated on a pillow-shaped boulder, Methos smiled to himself and gave his meal one last turn of the spit.

"Have you come to hear more of my travels?" he asked, not looking round. "I'm on my way to Invereil. Then I'll go on up the Great Glen to Inverness. From there I'll take ship to Rhodes. Now there's a splendid island." His visitor came no closer and for a while he talked of Rhodes, of its harbours and castles, and the Knights of St. John. There was no other sound but that of his voice, the plash of waves from the shore and the sough of the light breeze. Then, because he was straining every sense, he felt rather than heard the movement. Just one step, that was all, and not of a hoof-fall but the silent pad of a bare foot.

Methos stopped speaking and held his breath. The silence stretched taught.

"The castle at Lindos?" prompted a voice that touched him with warm velvet.

Methos turned his head.

The creature was tall, matching his own height. But the shoulders were wider, the chest deeper, the muscles heavier on larger bones. Naked and like any beast, unconcerned by that nakedness, it was as uncompromisingly male as the stallion. Dark silk feathered over its upper chest, and a thin line of darkness started just below its navel and widened down to the heavy genitals in their patch of thick curls. Long black hair drifted over the honey-brown shoulders in tangles, framing the face of a pagan demi-god. Its lower lip was full, hinting at sensuality and stubbornness in equal measure.

Deep, dark eyes watched him, wary and curious. The firelight reflected back from those eyes with an animal's green chatoyancy, and nothing human looked out from them. There was an agelessness about it, and the deadly innocence of a drawn blade. Something was born in Methos' well-barricaded heart.

"Gods above and below, but you are truly magnificent," he said reverently. He had seen the work of the Greek sculptors at first hand, had himself stood for Praxiteles, and he knew this creature, this each-uisge, would have inspired masterpieces. "Will you tell me your name?" he asked.

The each-uisge didn't answer, just watched him, head a little to one side. The same way the stallion had watched. "Do you have a name?" Again, no answer. "Well, true-names can have power in them, so perhaps you're wise. Shall I give you a use-name, then?" A slight smile lifted the corners of that tempting mouth and he took it for assent.

Slowly, lest he startle it, and with a casualness he was far from feeling, Methos got to his feet, studying the long muscular lines and fluid grace. It had strength and pride and an innate vitality that both appealed to him and challenged him. "Miles?" he suggested. "That means Soldier. No, let's stay away from Latin and stick with the Gaelic. Donnchadh. Brown Warrior. Donnchadh MacShiel. It might be a little insensitive to give you the local clan name, since you killed and ate the young heir. Among others."

"Why?" the creature asked.

"Because the clan wouldn't appreciate it, if they found out. They don't like being prey."

The wide shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Why? All things are prey to someone," it said, uncaring.

"True," said Methos, aware of the binding in his belt-purse, "and it's nothing to me what or who you dine on, as long as it isn't me. But they don't see it that way. And then," he went on, recalling Rory MacLeod, "there's the bastard who's raping and killing and making it seem as if you're the slayer."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he doesn't want to be found out, of course. Do you know what Law is?"

"That which is forbidden."

"Exactly. Their Law says that a man must not rape, and must not kill without just cause. If he was discovered he'd be executed."

"Then find him and execute him."

"Not me!" Methos snorted. "It's not my Law."

"Nor is it mine. But if he is of the Clan and has broken Clan Law, then the Clan should deal with him."

Methos stared at the creature, his jaw dropping. "I cannot believe I am arguing legal issues with a--a shape-shifter who eats people," he said. "What is your Law, Donnchadh?"

"That I do not leave Loch or Glen." It shrugged again. "That is all."

"A pity." And Methos smiled. "I know a monk who would endanger his immortal soul for a chance to talk with you."

The head tilted again. "Why?"

"Because he thinks you might be kin."

"Me?" The head tossed up in a way that was entirely equine. "I do not mate with humankind."

"Not you, specifically, but there are others like you, who do. The selkies, yes?"

"Them." It was a snort of sardonic amusement. "They'd mate with anything that didn't move swift enough."

"Which happens. In other lands, there are beings of the rivers and lakes and trees that look like beautiful women. Sometimes they take a human lover for a while and then leave him. If they bear a child, they abandon it to be found and raised among its father's kind."

"So?"

"A riddle, Donnchadh," Methos said softly, "That infant is immortal. But first it must grow and then it must die. When it dies, it will live and cannot be slain."

"So," Donnchadh said again, and Methos saw its nostrils flare as if it tested the wind. "I wondered why you smelt different to the others I've hunted."

"I was speaking of the monk."

"And yourself. How are you named, traveller?"

"Methos will do for now," he said easily. He'd had many other names, but he kept returning to that one. "Will you come with me to meet the monk?" he added on an impulse. Darius and holy vows could protect it. It would be safe in the monastery, but the thought of that long black mane cropped short and shaved into a tonsure was a blasphemy in its own right. The offer had been made on the spur of the moment, out of a barely recognised need in himself. Suddenly he'd wanted to show Donnchadh his world, journey with it to the many distant places he knew, see them again through the Sidhe's eyes.

"No. I do not leave my loch. Go find a selkie and take her pelt." It scented the air again. "Your birds burn."

"Damn!" Methos spun on his heel and lunged for the spit, lifting it from the fire just as the skins began to crisp and blacken. "Just in time. Will you join me? There's enough for two."

The creature's eyes flashed green as it gazed dubiously from his face to the grouse and back again. "No," it said.

Methos shrugged. "As you wish, but the offer stands if you change your mind. It's the only kind of meal you'll have at my fire; I don't eat raw flesh and I don't serve it up, either." He wondered briefly if the beast's teeth were as sharp in its man-form as they were in its horse-shape. He sat down again, took one of the birds off the spit and pulled it apart, blew on burnt fingers. "Where was I?"

"Lindos," said Donnchadh, and came closer to the fire.

"Oh, yes. Then you can tell me about yourself and your travels."

"I don't travel. Not beyond the Glen."

"Never? How long have you lived here?"

"Not long." It looked up at the bright swathe across the night sky. "The stars have hardly moved at all."

Methos nearly choked on a piece of hot meat. "How many years is that? Seasons?"

"I don't know." Nor did it sound interested in knowing.

Methos frowned. Rory had said he thought the waterhorse had taken perhaps half a dozen people in his own lifetime and the crofter looked to be in his mid-forties: a good age when a small cut on the hand could have a man dying in poisoned agony. "How often do you hunt?" he asked.

"When I'm hungry."

Methos gave an exasperated sigh. Perhaps the creature's perception of time was different to his--if it had one at all and didn't just exist from meal to meal. Then again, Darius' collected legends from Eirinn, Alba and the Western Isles had accounts that clearly said time ran differently in the two worlds, human and Sidhe. "Here," he said, holding out a portion of succulent thigh-meat. "Try it. You might like it."

"Lindos," Donnchadh reminded him again, coming closer still and folding those long legs to sit beside him with the grace of a great cat. It did not lift its hand for the offered meat. Instead, like that great cat, it leaned forward and took it with its mouth. For an instant Methos felt the touch of smooth lips, then with a snatch of its head, Donnchadh had the grouse and was chewing it.

Methos had lived for many more years than his features displayed, and he had travelled over much of the known world. He had learned long ago that desire was a pleasure to anticipate and a pleasure to fulfil, and gender was of no importance. Sometimes, though, it lay dormant until a small thing ignited it; a small thing like the gossamer-touch of lips on his fingers.

"Lindos," he agreed, hearing the huskiness in his own voice, but somehow he could not catch back the thread of his tale.

"Where will you be tomorrow night?" Donnchadh asked into the silence that was growing between them.

"Lodging with Rory MacLeod," Methos answered. "He's the one man of Glenfinnan who doesn't believe you took the women."

"Do you believe it?"

"No. But I am not of Glenfinnan. It might be as well," he went on cautiously, cleaning his greasy fingers on a handful of pine needles, "if you did not hunt this end of the loch for a while. A long while."

"Why?" it asked, as he had known it would. That one word seemed to fall from its mouth with amazing frequency.

"Because they will hunt you and kill you."

It shook its head, and the long mane moved on its hide with a silken rustle. "I think not. Men are weak and slow, and they fear me."

"One man, yes. Two, maybe three, yes. But when men fear greatly, they come together in a band. Then the fear grows into anger and the band grows bigger. When the anger is strong enough that band will come hunting and neither your strength, nor your speed, nor your shape-shifting will save you."

Donnchadh shrugged, uncaring, and Methos resisted the urge to grab its shoulders and shake it. "Their lives are short," the each-uisge said, "and their memory shorter. Let them do what they will, they cannot harm me."

"You are wrong," Methos said softly. "Believe me. What was done to those women will destroy you, if you don't stay away."

"This is my loch, my glen," came the even reply. "I hunted here long before they came with their stock and their ploughs. I will hunt when and where I choose." Then it turned his head and looked at him, those inhuman eyes lambent in the firelight. "My loch, my glen," it repeated. "Then by that reckoning this clan is mine, as the stag and the doe. My prey, Methos Traveller. No one takes my prey from me."

"Then take care your prey doesn't turn on you," he snapped, angry and saddened, because he hated to see beauty destroyed. "Five years ago, you killed a boy. Why him?"

"He came between me and the deer I hunted and spoilt the chase, so I took him in its place."

"As simple as that," Methos murmured wryly.

"Lindos," said the each-uisge, an implacable note in its velvet voice.

"Lindos," he echoed, "and while I'm talking, I'll do something about that mane of yours. It's a knotted mess. Have you no pride in your appearance?" He didn't wait for a response, just shifted off his boulder and knelt behind the creature. He took a handful of matted hair and began to tease the strands free. It was a clean mane, he discovered, just ravelled by wind and water to wild elflocks, damp from the loch and scented like a clover meadow.

The tale of Lindos and Rhodes led onto other Greek islands: to Crete and Knossos and the legend of Theseus, then on to Jason, the voyage of the Argo, the siege of Troy and Ulysses' wanderings. Donnchadh sat silent, not moving, even when a tangle needed a sharper tug on his scalp.

Lost in his stories, aware only of the silk that flowed ever more easily through his fingers, Methos forgot the binding, and he forgot to feed the fire. Until a charred log shifted and he looked up to see only faintly glowing ashes, and the full moon low in the sky. Dawn was only an hour or so away.

Pale light glowed pearlescent on the each-uisge's skin, brought strange highlights to its hair. Slowly, Methos gathered a double handful of mane and parted it to reveal the vulnerable nape with its curling infant-fine down. It drew him forward and he gave in to the temptation. He pressed his lips to the warm satin skin, smelling white clover and pine and wood-smoke. Donnchadh shivered, but did not pull away.

His heart pounding, Methos stroked his hands across the wide shoulders, feeling the slight quiver in the muscles at the contact. He nuzzled the hair aside and sought the strong throat, and Donnchadh's head tilted, letting him find the lobeless ear and suckle--

Then the each-uisge moved with blinding speed. It tore itself free and was across the dying fire, facing him, broad chest rising and falling with its unsettled breathing.

"Donnchadh," he said, coming to his feet, and it backed away, fading into the nightshade beneath the pines. "Donnchadh!"

There was no answer. Water lapped the shore, wind whispered through the trees, an owl called once, and Methos knew he was alone.

###

Sunrise, and Methos awoke from his light doze. Dew clung damply to his hair and cloak; he was chilled, unrested and alone. It was not worth rekindling the fire, so he made a swift breakfast of cold grouse and stale bannocks, and wrapped the second, untouched carcass in moss and bracken. Then he gave his horse a quick rubdown before lifting the saddle onto its back.

As he reached for the swinging girth he felt the each-uisge approach. Relief gusted through him and he turned to see Donnchadh in its man-shape watching him.

"I didn't expect to see you again," he said.

"I will go with you to Rory MacLeod," it said calmly.

Methos frowned. "Why?" he said, giving the creature's favourite word back at it.

It smiled without mirth, and Methos saw that the canines were a little longer than he thought was decent in a man. "I'm hunting," it replied.

"Not with me, you're not!" he snapped. "Who?"

"I'll know when he kills again."

Rendered momentarily speechless, Methos gaped at the creature. "That's--no. It's not possible."

Donnchadh shrugged. "As you will." It walked away to the road and started northeast. Towards the distant bridge and Glenfinnan.

"Donnchadh! Come back! You can't, not like that!"

"Like what?" It paused and slanted a glance back over its shoulder.

"Naked as an old maid's dream," he said irritably. "All right, but you listen to me and do as I say. Do we have a bargain?"

"I will listen to you," Donnchadh agreed.

"Then come here and I'll find you something to wear." He had clothes in his pack, put there, along with a bridle, for when he could fulfil his plan and take the each-uisge back to Darius in either of its shapes. "Put this on," he ordered, fetching out the creamy linen sark. It was old and darned but clean, and so was the red and black plaid. It had been all the Abbey could offer, and not anticipating this, he'd thought nothing about the pattern of its tartan. Darius had said it was of the Grants, and he prayed that clan was far enough away from MacLeod lands not to be seen as an enemy.

Donnchadh pulled the sark over his head, pushed his arms into the sleeves and jerked the garment straight. It hung to mid-thigh, a more than pleasing contrast to the brown skin. The each-uisge did not look pleased.

"Now this." Methos held out the plaid. "Do you know how to wear it? Foolish question," he answered himself, meeting the blank stare. "I'll show you this time, but you'll need to be doing it yourself. A grown man puts on his own clothes. You gather it like this and wrap it around your waist and belt it, and this comes over your shoulder and through the belt, so. There's a knife in the purse--it's a tool, for eating or shaving with, not a weapon." With an impatient grunt, he tugged the trapped mane out of the sark's collar. "You'll need to do something with this, as well," he said, keeping his voice surly with an effort. He gave Donnchadh's hair a brief finger-comb to bring it back from the each-uisge's face, then took the binding out of his purse and looped it around its mane, tied it off at the nape of it's neck, where his mouth had touched in the night--Donnchadh shied away from him as if stung, one hand going to the thong.

"What--" it began, then, "why?"

"To make sure you do more than just listen to me," Methos said grimly. "You don't know these people or their customs. You could too easily betray yourself and they will turn on you. Now I know you will obey me, each-uisge, and you can't shift your shape. That stays where it is. Don't take it off." Donnchadh didn't answer, just stared at him, eyes hard. Clothed like a man, it was no longer obviously inhuman, just a more than ordinarily handsome clansman. "Or you can change your mind and go back to your lake," Methos offered.

"No."

"Then, Donnchadh Grant, we'll be on our way."

"Grant?" it questioned, not moving.

"That's the weave in the plaid you're wearing." Methos buckled the gelding's girth, and fastened his pack behind the saddle. "Be careful what you say. Let me do the talking. Understood?"

Donnchadh nodded. Methos shook his head. "I must be mad," he muttered. "Come on," and started walking, the chestnut pacing behind him at the end of the reins.

After a moment the each-uisge caught up with him and walked at his shoulder, bare feet silent in the dust of the road.

###

The last time Methos had travelled this way, he'd been riding, and it had taken from dawn to dusk to journey from the croft to the camp by the forest edge. This time, with both of them on foot, it took longer, and it was full night before they approached Rory's home.

There was a light in the small window, and Methos gave a sigh of relief. "Hello, the hearth!" he called, "Rory, it's Methos Traveller with a friend. Do you have room for us?"

The door swung open, and the crofter appeared, framed in lamplight. "Of course I do. You know where the paddock is, then come away in, and be welcome."

Methos unsaddled his horse and let it loose in the paddock, where it was greeted with bared teeth by the pony. "Remember," he said to Donnchadh, "say little, and be careful what you do say."

"Yes," it said, and went ahead of him back to the croft-house.

Donnchadh hesitated at the threshold, but a nudge from Methos moved it forward. Rory closed the door behind them and barred it.

"You'll be ready for a meal," the crofter said. "I've not eaten myself, yet." He built up the fire and swung the pot over it. "It's been a grim day."

Donnchadh, whose gaze had been flicking about the room, became still, eyes focussed on the man. Methos felt a premonition chill slide down his spine. "Another one?" he asked.

Rory nodded. "Jenny MacLeod, my cousin's daughter. She went to her bed last night and was gone this morning. We found what was left of her on the shore west of the village not two hours ago."

"He took her from her bed?" Methos demanded. "Or did she go to meet him?"

"A good question." Rory sighed, and scrubbed his hands across his bearded face. "By God and His saints, I'm getting too old for this."

"Show me the tracks," the each-uisge said.

"I will, in the morning," Rory said, with a straight stare at the stranger.

"This is Donnchadh Grant," Methos said. "He's travelling with me to Invereil. Rory, were all the women taken from their homes?"

"Ailsa and Jenny. Fiona was taken from the kirkyard where she was tending her child's grave. Mairi was on her way to the peat cuttings with her man's food. He'd forgotten it that morning."

"What was the weather?" Donnchadh asked.

"And what were the dates?" Methos put in. "How long between each death?"

"Why?" Rory said, bewildered. "The poor lassies are dead, what does all that matter?"

"I spoke to Brother Darius at St. Finnan's about your murderer," Methos said. "He's a very wise and learned man, much travelled, and he's seen most of what mankind can do to mankind." He paused, framing the words carefully. "He said that most likely your man has a kind of madness in him, like a maggot in his brain. He probably has difficulty servicing a woman, that he hates them and loves them at the same time, and violence is the only thing that can stiffen his shaft. It starts with imaginings, then a blow, a beating and a rape, then a death. For a long time he could feed his lust on memories, but the need to kill again would grow. So he kills. And the pattern repeats itself, except that the memories are not enough and the need comes on him more frequently."

"That's--monstrous!" Rory groaned. "A madman, is it? There's none in this glen!"

"But it's not always a madness you can see," Methos said. "Even his wife wouldn't know. All she'd know is that her man, who had problems in bed, no longer does, and maybe is thankful for it. So," he finished, "it would be as well to collect together all that's known so you can make a fair guess as to where or when he's likely to strike again. And no woman goes anywhere alone. Even if you can't convince them it's a man and not the waterhorse, that would be a good plan."

"You're right." Rory growled. "And some of us tried. But you know how it is. Getting them to agree is fine. Getting them to actually do it is another thing entirely. It's like trying to gather a flock on your own with no dogs. They're off in every direction and each one with a good enough reason."

Methos shrugged. "Their lives, their choice," he said. "We brought something for the pot," he went on, dropping the subject entirely. He took the cooked grouse from his pack and handed it over to Rory. "We roasted it last night and it's been in cool moss all day. It'll still be good."

"Thanks." The crofter separated flesh from bones and dropped it piecemeal into the stew, then added more barley and onions. The bones went into the stockpot. "You've given me much to think on, Methos," Rory said. "Let me have a while to get my recollections together, and I'll tell you every detail I can."

By the time the three men went to their respective pallets, Methos had a comprehensive account in his head.

Mairi Beaton had died on a storm-drenched November day, two years and some months ago.

Fiona MacCorley, on a fog-locked February morning fifteen months later.

Ailsa had got up in the night during November of the last year, nine months after Fiona, because, so her man had said, she thought a fox was in amongst her hens. It had been raining.

Now, six months on, Jenny had been dragged or coaxed from her bed on a clear, moonlit night.

Wrapped in his cloak, Methos lay awake for a long time, turning it over in his mind. One thing was clear, the tale matched Darius' theory. The killer would kill again in a few months, or perhaps only weeks.

It was no business of his. He did not wish to be involved. He had no intention of staying. On the other hand, a mule-stubborn each-uisge was determined to involve itself. If any harm came to the creature, Darius would no doubt put the blame on him, and was likely to forget his monastic vows and try for his head.

Less than a foot away, Donnchadh was restless. It had not spoken much on the road. Whether it was the binding enforcing obedience to Methos' instruction to say little, or a disinclination to chatter, the each-uisge had volunteered nothing and answered questions with as few words as it could manage. Methos had been able to glean that since it had come to Loch Shiel Donnchadh rarely took the man-shape, but of its life before the loch it would say nothing. It had no experience of a human community. Nor had it ever crossed a croft's threshold, let alone spent a night under its roof.

Donnchadh may have had little to say, but it had been happy enough to listen. It's curiosity about the world beyond its glen was patent, but Methos' immediate concern had been to make sure the each-uisge knew the rules and etiquette of communal life among the clansfolk. He had also tried to persuade it to give up its hunt, but Donnchadh was as obdurate as the bones of the land, and would not.

Nothing had been said by either of them on that kiss to the nape, but Methos thought of it. He glanced at the pallet beside him.

The smouldering peat gave off little light, just enough for him to see that the each-uisge was finally asleep. It lay on its side with its back to him, knees drawn up a little. It had started the night with its plaid as a blanket, but the woollen folds had long since been kicked off. The sark had ridden up around its hips, the pale linen almost luminous in the gloom of the croft's single room. Shadows painted the half-naked body, outlining its strength and grace--

Donnchadh stretched long legs, rolled over and curled up again. It was a little closer now, and the faint but distinctive scent of clover came with it. Methos reached across and replaced the discarded plaid, more to put temptation out of his sight then consideration for the creature's comfort. It was too easy to recall the texture of the warm skin under his mouth, the flow of hair slipping though his fingers, and that telling quiver of reaction just before Donnchadh pulled away.

Methos smiled to himself, put out a tentative hand and lightly brushed the spill of dark hair below the binding. Lust was a familiar friend, and he knew the attraction was mutual. It would only be a matter of time. The smile became a smirk, and he fell asleep with it still on his mouth.

###

A sound awoke him, and he sat up to see Donnchadh at the door, lifting the bar. The each-uisge was no longer half-naked. Its kilt was securely belted into place, the folds as they should be, more or less. It clearly learned fast, which was to the good, if it wanted to survive.

The door opened and mist drifted in with the pale light.

"It'll be another hot day," Donnchadh said quietly, glancing at the pallet where Rory lay snoring. "The killer didn't wait for the weather to break this last time. He probably won't wait on the weather when he hunts again."

"Possibly, but he won't be needing the kill for a while yet. Two months, three if they're lucky." Donnchadh didn't answer, but its jaw set with a jut of determination. Methos chuckled and walked out into the dawn. "Your hunt can't start until Rory shows us the trail," he said. "I'm for the burn and a wash. Come on."

Obediently, the each-uisge followed him. "Or we could go down to the loch," it suggested. "The water's deeper. We could swim." It sounded almost wistful.

"Another time," he said. "Who taught you Gaelic, Donnchadh?"

"A hermit. He lived in a cave under the ridge over there." Hen gestured to the rocky heights above them. "He was mad. He kept splashing stuff he said was holy water at me, telling me I was a sin made flesh and an abomination. I had to stay up-wind of him. He stank."

"Hermits often do," Methos said. "Is he still up there?"

"No. I think they buried him in the kirkyard."

"How did he die?" Methos asked, although he could make a good guess.

"I killed him. He tried to trap me in his cave, so I crushed his skull."

"Did you make a meal of him?"

"I did not." Donnchadh's lip curled fastidiously. "He was rank with filth. He said he was mortifying his flesh, but it seemed to me he took a pride in the foulness and the only thing he mortified was my nose. Besides, he was old and mostly bone."

Methos chuckled. He'd had nearly as many words from the each-uisge this morning as he'd had the whole of yesterday. "He told you of the lands beyond your Glen?"

"A little. He'd come from Strome, and he'd been to Skye and the Western Isles, but that was all. He hadn't travelled as much as you."

"There's plenty to see out there, for a man with curiosity," Methos said. "You should try it."

Donnchadh shook its head. "I can't. The Law says I must stay."

"If you leave, will they hunt you?"

It shrugged, noncommittal. "I'd lose the shifting," it said. "I'd stay as I am when I cross the bounds."

"I was going to mention that," Methos said. He knelt beside the water and stripped off jerkin and sark. Beside him, Donnchadh removed its sark. "The horse-shape has far more weight and bulk than the man-shape. How is that? Where does it come from when you change from man to horse? Where does it go when you change from horse to man?"

Donnchadh shrugged wide shoulders. "I don't know," it said. "It just is."

"But don't you wonder?"

"No." The each-uisge lifted its head and gazed west through the morning haze. "My wonder is kept for those islands out there. For the lands and cities you talk about."

"Come with me, then, and see them for yourself."

"No." It turned away and walked downstream, to a pool wide and deep enough for a tall man to lie in. Belt and plaid were dropped in the heather and it slid into the cold water.

Methos sighed and shook his head, refusing to stare at the casual nakedness. He took out the small piece of Turkish soap he kept stowed in his belt-purse, and washed. Then he shaved the stubble from his jaw. The scent of sandalwood joined that of heather and clover with an exotic undertone, the rising sun touched warm on his skin, and he put aside all thought of killers and waterhorses. At that moment, it was good to be alive.

###

The crofter had porridge and griddle scones ready for their breakfast, a meal that the each-uisge looked on with some suspicion. Methos waited until Rory was fetching more peat from the stack outside, then reached out to push the bowl a little closer to the creature.

"Eat," he said quietly, "or you'll offend our host. If you're going to mimic a man's shape, then you live and eat as a man, or go back now to the loch and give up the hunt."

The sullen set to the each-uisge's mouth was very human, and Methos was hard put to it not to laugh. But it picked up the spoon and began to eat. Methos studied it, noted the darkening along its cheeks and jaw-line and smiled to himself. Donnchadh had been in this form for a day and a night, and its body was reacting as would a proper man's. Darius would be fascinated.

"Why are you staring at me?" it demanded, scowling and wary.

"You'll need to choose whether you're going to carry on growing that beard or shave it off," Methos said. "The knife in your purse is sharp enough if you decide to be rid of it."

Donnchadh grunted and shrugged. "I'd as soon be rid of this binding," it said frankly. "It irks me."

"It stays." Immersion in the burn had sleeked some semblance of order into the each-uisge's hair, and the binding showed no sign of coming free. Methos remembered the gloss of firelight on honey-brown skin and the black silk tangle spread on strong shoulders--

"It'll be another hot day," Rory said, coming in with an armful of peat. "The mist is already burning off. We'll have thunder before nightfall, I'd say." He smoored the fire, laying the turfs carefully over the smoulder, then stood up, dusting his hands. "That'll do for the day," he went on, and turned to face them. "I'll need to take you to Iain MacLeod, you understand. He'll want to know why passing strangers are asking to see where the killing happened."

Methos shrugged. "Donnchadh is a fine huntsman, he can track a cat across rock. I've some experience myself. We just want to see if we could help. The killer has to be stopped before he needs another victim, and maybe starts to look outside this glen."

"And if it is the each-uisge after all?"

"Then we make another plan," Methos said, abruptly wishing he'd had the commonsense to ride away from the dangerous tangle and leave the damned waterhorse to its own devices. How many times in the past had lust clouded his judgement? This was fast becoming yet another example. "Or rather, your chieftain does. My horse needs a shoe replacing, and once that's done, Donnchadh and I will be on our way. We have messages that won't wait for ever to be delivered."

"That's understood," Rory said. "Iain is a fair man, he'll give you a hearing. There are red MacLeods and black MacLeods," he went on, smiling. "The red are swift to anger and slow to forgive, the black are slow to anger, and even slower to forgive. Both are more stubborn than boulders and impossible to move when they take a stand. Iain is red. Or was." Then he paused and pinned the each-uisge with a level stare. "One more thing before we leave," he went on. "You're a bonny lad, Donnchadh Grant, and the lassies will no doubt be around the pair of you like bees to honey pots. I don't know how it is in the Clan Grant, but here we expect a man to keep his hands away from the lassies' skirts, no matter how they throw themselves at him."

For a brief moment arrogance flared in the each-uisge's eyes, but then it smiled with devastating sweetness. "Then," it said, a purr in its velvet voice, "I'll make it clear that I share only Methos' bed, and no other."

"What?" Methos barked over Rory's laughter, outraged and aroused at the same time. "You'll do no such thing! They'd stone us or burn us, or something equally unpleasant!"

"Both, most like," Rory spluttered. "Och, man, you should see your face! Fetch your horse, and we'll be on our way."

The crofter was still snickering as they entered the village, and Methos hadn't yet decided whether the each-uisge had been joking or was serious. Did it even understand jokes? Every now and then he'd meet its eyes, and the peat-brown depths were limpid, guileless.

He didn't trust it, binding or no binding.

###

Rory took them first to the forge, yet another squat stone house with a lean-to and a paddock on the northern edge of Glenfinnan. The smith gave them a cheerful nod and carried on hammering nails into the shoe of a sleek grey mare. He worked swiftly and neatly, Methos observed, and the orderly layout of the forge reflected the same care.

"Donal," Rory said, "this is Methos, a courier from St. Finnan's to the Abbey at Invereil. His gelding's cast a shoe."

"It can be a bad road from Shielfoot," Donal said. He put down the mare's hoof and straightened, easing his back in a stretch. He was an inch or so below Methos' height, and his heavy muscles were sweat-glossed in the heat of sun and furnace. Methos guessed him to be in his early thirties: a dark-haired, good-looking man in the prime of his life. Very blue eyes swept over the chestnut with an expert's assessment. "Which shoe?"

"Near fore," Methos said. "He's not lame, thank God, but I'll not ride him without one on these roads."

"Very wise." Donal stroked a hand down the gelding's shoulder and leg, tapped its fetlock and lifted the hoof into his lap. "Good and sound and no damage done. I have to finish Sorcha here, and there's another couple waiting. I can have him ready for you by late afternoon."

"That'll be fine. Thanks." They discussed the weather, the ever-present likelihood of rain, the price of the shoeing and the excellent points of the drowsing mare, and shook hands on the deal. Methos left the gelding in the smith's paddock and they went back into the village.

A causeway and a bridge took them across to the Keep. Seen close to, its thick stone walls and slabbed roofs looked as if they could withstand any kind of weather the seasons might fling at them, as well as man-made weapons. Inside, the hall was dim and smoky, alive with the bustle of people. The only stillness was the group of men clustered round the table on the dais at the far end.

"Iain MacLeod," Rory said, raising his voice. "Here's someone offering help to find Jenny's killer. Methos Traveller and Donnchadh Grant, come from St. Finnan's Priory." And he led them forward.

Iain MacLeod was a heavyset man with a bushy mane and beard that once had been flame-red and now was roan streaked with white. His grey eyes were tired, bitter, and Methos recalled that the lad Donnchadh had killed had been his only son. But there was the weight of authority in his steady gaze, and strength to the bearded jaw.

"What can you do," Iain demanded, "that we have not done? Besides, we know where it came from and where it went. What else is there to know, save how to destroy it? Can you tell me that, Methos Traveller?"

"No," Methos said. "But--"

"In any case, I've sent a rider to St. Finnan's this morning, to see if the Prior will have better luck than Invereil's Abbot in drawing the beast out of its lair and slaying it."

"Then will you give us leave to stay in Glenfinnan until he comes?" Methos said. "He'll need to know where it prefers to hunt, if there is a pattern to its hunting and its kills, so he can trap it with prayers and holy water. I can read and write; if I was to record everything your people can remember and have it ready for him, it would save time, and time may be something that is fast running out if the each-uisge should decide to strike again."

"Patterns!" Iain grunted. "You've been listening to Rory MacLeod," he said with a spear-straight glare at the man. "Father Murdo told me all that long since, and he's already begun an account. He's old," he added grudgingly, "and half-blind, but--"

Methos pounced on that. "My thanks," he said smoothly, assuming acceptance before Iain could turn the remark into a refusal. "I'll be glad to give him what aid I can."

"Very well. What of you, Donnchadh Grant?"

"The holy Father would want me to stay with Methos Traveller," the waterhorse said. "I have never gone beyond my own lands, and there is much I am learning from him. But I can follow sign better than most."

Methos smiled, pleasantly surprised; it was a nice piece of misdirection.

"Then stay, and give what aid you can. I'll tell you both frankly, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to have the cursed thing's head above my gate, not just to avenge my child, but all the suffering it's brought us over the years. Go to Father Murdo, then, and tell him you have my leave. You'll sleep under my roof while you're here, and eat at my table. I'll want to know all that you discover."

"I'll take you to the kirk, then," Rory said quickly, and Donnchadh muttered something as they left the hall.

"What?" Methos demanded.

"I said, I hope he doesn't stink," the each-uisge snapped, "or you can talk to him on your own."

###

The priest was a man some ten or so years above Iain's age, pale iron grey where he was roan, and there was a certain likeness that spoke of kinship. Half-blind, the chieftain had said; one of Murdo's eyes was milk-white, the other clouded but still blue. He lived in a stone cell at the side of the kirk, and when Rory ushered them in, the air was thick with nothing else but incense and peat smoke.

Donnchadh sneezed.

"Tell Murdo," Rory said quickly, before the proper introductions could be made, "what your Brother Darius said. About the madness."

"What madness?" the priest said, startled and alarmed.

"Our human beast. Tell him, Methos."

Methos obeyed, laying out the information in much the same terms as he'd done for Rory. Murdo listened in silence, then hurried to a small chest, threw open the lid and rooted through its contents until he'd gathered an armful of stained vellum sheets. He spread them on the small table under the single window, and beckoned them closer.

"I've chronicled our each-uisge for many years," he said, "but no one listened to me. Not Iain, not the Abbot from Invereil. Only Rory." On the sheets were a series of hoof prints sketched in fading brown ink, all unshod. "These," Murdo said, tapping one sheet, "I drew from prints left when Iain's young Donnchadh was taken over by the otters' pool, and these from around a slaughtered stag some fifteen years ago now. All these from kills over the last forty-odd years." They matched the mark drawn by Rory in the ash of his hearth in virtually all respects. "These I drew from where Mairi, Fiona and Ailsa had been snatched away. They're smaller, from more than one horse. And this one," he went on, putting the sheet under Methos' nose. "I haven't the skill to show it, but I remember how the off hind hoof turned in a little, with the animal's weight on the outside edge. That would be the same whether the horse was shod or bare," he added with an intensity that stood Methos' nape-hair on end. Then the old priest stood back. "I haven't been able to record any sign from Jenny's abduction, my eyes aren't good enough any more."

"You know who it is, don't you?" he asked quietly, and Donnchadh's breath came in a sudden, venomous hiss.

"I have suspicions," Murdo said wearily, "and no proof. Some of what I know comes from the confessional and of that I cannot speak. For the rest, I've watched as best I could with my failing sight, and what your Brother Darius claims fits too well to be ignored."

"Who is he?" Donnchadh demanded, a savage anger in voice and eyes.

Murdo shook his head. "I have no proof, and I'll say nothing that'll set off a young hothead with fire in his blood."

"Donnchadh, let it be," Methos said. "He's right. Father, the Chieftain said you had a written account. May I see it?"

"Of course." He rooted in the chest again, and brought out another bundle. This was long strips of vellum, stitched together at one end, and mostly covered with scrawled erratic lines.

Father Murdo was no scholar, Methos discovered. The chronicle had been written in a barely legible hand using a mixture of bastard Latin and Gaelic, and with wildly eccentric spelling. But names and dates were clear enough. So too were the priest's conclusions that whoever had murdered the women was not the same creature who had committed the previous killings.

For the benefit of Rory and Donnchadh, Methos read out the relevant passages.

"I keep on thinking, could it be a traveller?" Rory said into the silence when he'd finished. "Someone passing through--tinkers, pedlars--" and shook his head, sighing wearily. "But there'd been none that I recall, not when they died."

"So he's still here," Donnchadh said with some satisfaction, "and he uses horses. Who in Glenfinnan has horses?"

"Only the Chieftain," Rory said. "Surely you're not saying--"

"Are they all shod?" Donnchadh went on.

"Of course. Horses and ponies all. The land's too hard and stony for them to go without."

"How many does he have?" Methos asked.

"Eight."

"Have you compared their tracks?" Methos asked, and Murdo groped for his chair, sitting in it with a sigh that might have been relief.

"But they're shod," Rory protested. "These aren't."

"A man's shoes can be put on and taken off," said Donnchadh. "Is it any different for a horse? And this off-hind twist, that's clear enough. If we know--and can prove--he's using the Chieftain's horses, we're one step closer to knowing his name. Who has the use of them, apart from Iain MacLeod himself?"

"His brother Lachlan and his two sons. His cousin Fergal his horsemaster, and Conn Mor his armsman, and whoever he might send with urgent messages."

"So one has gone to Shielfoot," Methos sighed. "Damn."

"Two," Murdo answered. "He sent young Seamus with the fastest pair, riding turnabout."

"Then the best man to speak to would be the one who shoes them," Rory said eagerly. "Donal MacLeod will know their hooves better than his own feet."

Murdo stirred uncomfortably in his chair. "It would be better," he said carefully, "if we kept this between the four of us. Rory, you've seen the tracks left at Jenny's, would you draw them for me as best you can, so I can add them to the record?"

"Others would have seen those tracks," Methos said. "Can you get them to look at the drawings and sign their mark if they agree it's a good likeness? Then when we find the hoof that fits the prints, there can be no doubt."

"We can do that," Murdo agreed. "But later, or we may be warning our murderer that we're closing in on him."

"You have no record of the damage to the bodies," Methos said, "other than a written account. Can I see Jenny?"

"If you've the stomach for it," Murdo said heavily. "I need to talk to her grandfather, in any case. We'll be burying her tomorrow."

###

Half a mile west of Glenfinnan, Jenny MacLeod lay on a makeshift bier in her croft, waiting for her coffin. She had been washed and wrapped in a linen shroud, but the smell of blood and butchered meat hung in the still air. Malcolm MacLeod sat in a chair by the cold fire, hunched over and silent.

With a whispered prayer, Murdo drew the linen from her face. Jenny had been in her early twenties, with strong-boned features--a good-looking woman. Now her face was bruised and torn, the imprint of a hoof clear on her cheek. It had not swollen, nor had it bruised like the other marks, but the bone beneath was broken and splintered.

"That was done after she was dead," Methos said quietly. "What other wounds did she have?"

"More hoof prints on her ribs and belly," Rory answered. "Her right arm was broken--crushed at the wrist. Her breasts had been torn away and her left arm. And the rape."

"I need to see them," Methos said. "If I am to report to the Bishop, I must have all the evidence." He held Murdo's distressed gaze. "I'm sorry," he said. "This has to be done, but I'll not be disrespectful to the dead or her family's grief."

"I'll talk to Malcolm," the priest said. "And if he does agree, best he doesn't see it."

After a short low-voiced talk, Murdo looked up and nodded, then he ushered the old man outside.

"Prop the door open, Donnchadh," Methos said. "We'll need all the light we can get. Rory, if you could find candles, rush-lights, anything."

Donnchadh wedged the door wide and came back to stand at his shoulder. "The Chieftain is coming," it said quietly. "Him and another, both mounted."

"You and Rory go out and greet him and put the horses in the paddock," Methos ordered. "Then check each hoof, memorise it, and Rory can draw it for the chronicle."

Iain MacLeod was angry. He came into the croft with his hand on his sword-hilt and a scowl on his face, followed closely by another, younger man.

"You overstep the mark, Methos Traveller," he said. "How does this help Father Murdo with his account?"

"He can see what I cannot," the priest said before Methos could speak, "and write it in a good hand. Iain, Lachlan, let be, I beg you."

"Have you seen her injuries, MacLeod?" Methos asked.

The man nodded. "I was with Rory when we found her in the shallows. Why?"

"We need to take a closer look."

"Why?" the Chieftain shouted. "The poor lass is dead! Isn't that enough?"

"No," Methos said steadily. "If you are to keep the living safe, you must learn all you can from the dead. I ask your permission to go on with this--and I ask that you both witness it."

"It's not right! We should let her rest in peace!"

"Her death and the manner of it is not right!" Methos countered. "She has to be allowed to tell us what she can, and since she can't speak, her wounds are all the witnesses we have. How else can she rest?"

The Chieftain hesitated, clearly in two minds, then he nodded. "Go on," he said grimly.

With gentle impersonal care, Methos uncovered Jenny's upper body. "Three more hoof prints, Murdo," he said, "and like the one on her face, they were done after death." From the corner of his eye Methos saw Rory and Donnchadh come back into the room.

"How do you know that?" Lachlan asked.

"No bruising, no swelling." He inspected the raw meat and bone of her ribs, where her breasts had once been, and turned to the priest, a frown pulling down his brows. "You told me she'd been savaged by a beast," he said, accusation in his voice. "This was done with a blade!"

"Don't be ridiculous, man!" Iain snapped. "It was the waterhorse, with fangs like--"

"Fangs sharp enough to score bone with fine lines?" Methos cut in scornfully. "The same with the arm; it's been torn from its socket, but the first cuts are here and here. I'll wager you've seen your share of battle wounds, Iain MacLeod, and you've butchered a few deer in your time. I'll also wager you've seen a carcass brought down by wolves. Now, forget for a moment that this is a murdered lass, she'll forgive us for it. Look for yourself." He pointed out the cuts on the woman's exposed ribs, the sliced tendons around her arm-socket. She'd been in the water long enough for fish to abrade some of the flesh around the edges of her wounds, but in places the slash of a blade was clear.

"Fangs tear," Methos said over the man's muttered curse. "They worry and pull and puncture. And there," he said suddenly, seeing the small slit in the ruin of her left breast for the first time, "is the blow that killed her. A stab to the heart between the ribs. I can't speak for the other lassies that were raped and killed, but I'd swear an oath that this one died by a man's hand, not a Sidhe-creature's. As for the hoof-marks, the edges are so sharp I'd say they were done with iron. Each mark on her is the same, coming in from the same angle. He probably used a club with a horseshoe nailed to it."

Iain swore again, and beckoned his brother closer. "Lachlan, what do you say?"

"By God," the man said huskily, "I think he's right! I never saw--when we found her--just assumed --"

"So did we all."

"We saw what we expected to see, as we were meant to," Rory said. "Iain, this isn't the first time I've doubted the killer. All the lassies, Fiona, Mairi, Ailsa, now poor Jenny--I swear the same man did it."

"I have records," Murdo put in. "Iain MacLeod, I beg you, listen to us, believe us! This madman will strike again if he cannot be stopped!"

"Are you saying that all these years he--my son--"

"No," Methos said regretfully. "We're saying he killed the four women, no others."

"A pedlar," Lachlan said, "a tinker, a stranger on the road--"

"They were all taken at night or when the weather was bad," Donnchadh said. "All were raped and butchered and left in the loch. That does not seem like the work of a passing stranger."

"The lad's right." Lachlan said. "This sounds like one of our own, Iain: one who knows how hard the each-uisge has hit us, and is counting on that to blind us."

"Find him, Methos Traveller," Iain said grimly. "I'll want proof, mind you, and until you have it, this stays between us; I'll not have a hunting frenzy where every petty grudge becomes an accusation. Do what you have to do, go where you will, and keep me informed."

"All right," he agreed. "Were the other bodies marked like this?" He touched the hoof print on her face with gentle fingers.

"No," said the Chieftain, and Rory nodded agreement.

"Then he's maybe heard that one man, at least, has doubts about the waterhorse, and thought he'd drive home the point with these," Methos said. "He made a mistake, because an unshod hoof wouldn't leave that kind of print on dead flesh. Tell me about her, Rory."

Jenny was widowed and had lived with her grandfather in his croft. As far as Rory knew, she'd had no known lover, had no known enemies either, and was well liked.

Her grandfather could add little more. Malcolm MacLeod was devastated by her death, and had trouble stringing his words together. She'd gone to her bed at her usual time, and the first thing he knew of her disappearance was when he awoke and found the fire almost dead and no breakfast waiting. The blanket had been flung back and her shawl was missing. The rest of her clothing was still neatly folded on the chest at the foot of her bed. The door was unbarred. He was partially deaf and had heard nothing.

"Someone came in the night. Someone she knew," Methos said.

"That's what I thought," Rory said, nodding. "She opened the door--and either went willingly or was taken so quick she didn't have a chance to scream."

"There's been too many people here since then," Donnchadh said. "No tracks, no scent. I'll take a wider sweep, see what I can find. We'll need to discover where she died," it added. "It'll almost certainly be near water. He'd have to wash the blood from himself before he went back to his own place."

"I'll go with you," Rory said. "Methos, Father Murdo can take you to where she was found," he went on, "we'll join you there."

"Go with them, Lachlan," Iain commanded.

Methos gave the each-uisge a direct stare that ordered it to be circumspect. "We'll wait for you," he said, then turned to the priest. "Murdo, who were her closest friends?"

"Morag MacAllum, and Rory's sister, Cait. Morag's the wife of Donal MacLeod, the smith. Cait's wed to Conn Mor. You'll be wanting to talk with them?"

"Yes, but first, I'll see where she was found."

"In the shallows, just beyond Cormorant's Rock. All the lassies were found there. As if he leaves them to taunt us. There's nothing on the rock itself. We thought he might have killed them there, so Rory took a boat out to it and crawled over every inch."

###

Cormorant's Rock was a twelve foot long slab of rock that rose out of the loch like the humped back of some monstrous fish. It was over two miles from the croft, and some thirty feet offshore, and the water between it and the land was deep. But to the other side of it, the shallows were just that, a wide shelf barely a couple of feet below the surface. Further out, it dropped suddenly to deeper waters.

"Iain went out and brought her in," Murdo said, sadness harsh in his voice. "Her nightgown and shawl were close by, torn to rags."

"But was she put into the water here?" Methos asked softly. The shore on this part of the loch was lichen- and weed-covered rock, from gravel to huge weathered boulders, and the hillside began not far from the water's edge. Unshod hooves would leave little sign on stone, and the searchers would have obliterated any scuff-marks.

"Maybe Rory and Donnchadh will have found a trail," Murdo said, but he did not sound optimistic.

"The young Grant has a rare skill," Methos said, and hoped that was the case. Perhaps Sidhe-senses would show it more than human eyes could see.

A thought suddenly struck him and he chuckled.

"What is it?" Murdo demanded. "You've seen something?"

"No," Methos said, smiling. "It just came to me that the Prior would probably send Brother Darius to Glenfinnan. If he does, then we'll gain by it. Darius was not always a monk. He was a warrior once. Your beast, human or Sidhe, will not be able to stand against him. He'd bring more than prayers and holy water to the hunt."

###

It was nearly midday before Methos heard Rory calling his name. He looked up to see the man and the waterhorse coming towards him from the west.

"They're here?" Murdo asked, coming to his feet.

"Will be, very soon," Methos said, "and Rory looks grim."

"They've had no luck, then," the priest said heavily.

"I'd say the opposite. Donnchadh is smiling."

"Huh. He's a hothead, that one."

"No. He just has a strong sense of what's right and wrong, and the arrogance to believe it's for him to deal out justice."

Murdo gave a snort of dark amusement. "Are you sure he's a Grant? That sounds like a MacLeod to me."

"Sounds more like a young idiot to me," Methos said sourly.

"We found it!" Rory called before Murdo could answer. "Lachlan's away to tell Iain."

"He rode the horse with the twisting gait," Donnchadh said. "Lachlan says he knows it--it's the Chieftain's own, his favourite."

"Found what? Where?" Murdo demanded.

"The killing place," Donnchadh answered, "and where he put them into the water."

"It's that gully below Deer Leap," Rory said. "Where the ledge juts out over the deep water. No one would see a thing unless they were right above it."

"But--" Methos frowned at the two of them. "Are you certain? How did the bodies end up here, then?"

"Back eddies," Rory announced triumphantly. "The lad put me onto it, talking about water currents. The rivers at the head of the loch feed in with something of a rush, even at this time of the year. The currents converge and sweep on down past here, and they throw out back eddies as they go. Anything put into the water for some miles along this side of the loch will end up in the Cormorant Shallows. When we first searched, we didn't circle out wide enough."

Methos met the dark gaze of the each-uisge and acknowledged it with a nod. "Good work," he said. "Are you sure that's where he killed them?"

"No doubt of it," Rory growled. "There's a place just above the waterline where he's tethered the horse. Further up into the gully, the sides narrow and the floor rises. It's dark and damp, and right at the end there's an overhang, almost a cave. There's a pallet in it, soaked in blood, old and new. Lachlan found the club--a stave of wood with a horseshoe nailed to it, just like you said, and he's taken it to his brother. But there was nothing there that could give us the killer's name."

There was a long pause. "How does he get to the horses?" Methos said into the silence. He could feel Murdo staring at him, and the intensity in the single clouded blue eye was unsettling. "He'd have to be based at the Keep, surely? Or at least, have unquestioned access to the stables." He frowned thoughtfully. "And," he went on, "he'd have to have the tools and the skill to take off the horses' shoes and nail them back on."

Murdo sighed, and drew the cross on his breast.

"Well," Rory said hesitantly, "there's one that comes to mind, but…. No. It can't be him. I've known him all his life." They waited for a name, but Rory shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "I'll not believe it, and I'll not speak it." Not that he needed to, Methos thought grimly. There was only one man it could be.

"Very soon now," Donnchadh said quietly, "he'll know his place has been found, and perhaps he'll fear we're closer to finding him than we are. If he strikes out at us, he'll over-reach himself and we'll have him."

"Maybe," Murdo said, "but it'll probably be at the price of another life. Go and talk to Iain, Methos, try to stop him doing anything hasty."

Methos did not dignify that with an answer. Iain MacLeod could make his own decisions as far as he was concerned. But he didn't dawdle on his way back to the Keep, and Donnchadh kept pace with him, striding at his shoulder.

"Was there more?" Methos demanded as soon as they were out of earshot. "Could you scent anything?"

"Old blood and new, fear, death," it answered. "Nothing that might be him. The gully is narrow and steep. A man could climb down, or up, but not a horse. He'd have to go into the water this side of the outcrop and swim the horse in with the woman."

"He hadn't tied her, though," Methos said. "There were no marks on her wrist that a rope would leave--"

"How could she fight him if her left wrist was broken like the right?" the each-uisge said. "What would crush the bone like that?"

"A hammer, maybe, and strong muscles. Not the horseshoe stave."

"Then I have a name for you. Donal MacLeod," Donnchadh said.

"He'd be my choice," Methos agreed. "But we do nothing without proof, Donnchadh MacShiel! And when we can put the whole picture before Iain and his people and have them believe, it's for the Chieftain to act, not us!"

"My glen," the each-uisge said. "My loch." Then, with grim determination, "My clan."

"Yes, well," Methos said with a wry smile. "Iain MacLeod might dispute it. And he might not be willing to accept that one of his kin is the likely murderer."

###

Iain MacLeod was at least prepared to consider the possibility of Donal's guilt. The smith's name was the first thing he said as Methos and Donnchadh came into the private room above the hall.

"Donal MacLeod. That's who all this points to, isn't it?"

Lachlan, slumped in a chair in front of the smouldering hearth-fire, stirred but said nothing. His face was dark and sombre, jaw stubbornly set.

"So far, yes," Methos answered. "He has the skills, the opportunities, he was known and trusted by the dead women. But most of that could be said about every man in Glenfinnan and the outlying crofts." He hesitated, then told them of Darius' warning. They listened in silence, Lachlan's expression lightening.

"It isn't Donal," he said. "Damn it, he's kin! He's a bonnie-looking man in the prime of his life, with a doting wife who's weeks away from birthing their child! And he's hung like a horse!"

"A child that maybe couldn't have been conceived if not for the blood-lust," Iain said heavily. "They've been married over ten years now, and this is their first. What's the use of a man being hung like a horse if he can't perform like a stallion?" Lachlan grunted, but didn't answer. "I'll not have him put beyond suspicion on appearances or kinship. Nor will I act against him on suspicion without proof. Cold iron facts, Methos Traveller. That's what I want, and that's what you'll find for me, if there are any to be found."

It was a dismissal, and Methos obeyed it. Besides, he had a horse to collect from the smith.

###

For nearly a week Methos and Donnchadh walked with Father Murdo and Rory MacLeod, talking to the families of the dead women, following their paths. The early evenings were spent in Murdo's cell, with Methos squinting in the candlelight and writing copious notes from their reports and drawings. In the single dimly lit room, the each-uisge's eyes were sometimes greenly opalescent, reflecting the small flames. If Rory noticed, he made no comment.

Nights were spent on pallets in the hall of the Keep, along with others of the MacLeod household. Donnchadh was patently uncomfortable in the crowded, never-silent chamber, and slept little, but it made no complaint. All of its focus seemed to be on trapping the killer. Even its questions on distant places seemed to have dried up, to Methos' disappointment. Not that he enjoyed the sound of his own voice--more that he liked the rapt attention in those fathomless eyes.

Proximity without the opportunity to act on the growing hunger he felt for Donnchadh, gave Methos the chance to learn more about the creature's personality and quick mind in its responses to the others around it. In particular, the young women. Donnchadh had kept its chin shaved smooth, and the women, whether they were wed or not, clearly found its looks very much to their liking. It had problems fending off their advances, and Methos got the impression that it wasn't trying as hard as it might.

The creature did have a sense of humour, he discovered, and a rather dry wit that appealed almost as much as its dangerous grace and underlying sensuality. It was an autocrat, with its own concept of honour and obligation, and it took a proprietorial interest in the people and their day-to-day lives. Nor was Methos the only one to notice this. The young laird, they called it, behind its back and to its face, and it laughed with them, enjoying the joke.

The first time Methos heard that laughter, he was stopped in his tracks by the sheer joyousness of it. Something tightened in his chest, then loosened to flood him with a bittersweet emotion compounded of desire and tenderness and something he refused to acknowledge. What the each-uisge felt, if anything, he could not guess.

On the rare occasions when they were alone, Methos sometimes risked a touch to its hair, its shoulder, and each time Donnchadh shied away. But in the hall of a late evening, when the clansfolk had gathered round and the ale and stories were flowing, Methos would be sprawled on a bench, the each-uisge sitting on the floor at his feet and leaning against his knees. It was only a need for companionship, maybe, or confirmation that it wasn't entirely alone in an alien place. Or perhaps, Methos decided hopefully, it liked to be close to him, if only on its own terms.

Then Methos started to notice a change of attitude towards himself and Donnchadh. Suspicion began to creep into their eyes; caution and sometimes hostility met his questions. The young women who had flirted with Donnchadh now avoided it, and to Methos' eyes, its obvious disappointment was mixed with a certain amount of relief.

Rory discovered the cause easily enough. "They doubt you both," he said grimly. "A rumour's started that the reason why the killing-ground was found so swiftly, was because you already knew it was there, that you're so eager to track the killer because you're looking to throw the scent away from yourselves. Oh, the clansfolk believe the each-uisge isn't the murderer, right enough. Now most of them think it's either or both of you."

"Well, I suppose that's progress, of a sort," Methos said wryly. "How do they explain the MacLeod horses?"

"That Murdo and I are deluded and you two are liars."

Methos sighed, but there was nothing to be done about that. Yet. Rumour was, after all, a game for more than one player.

Cait MacLeod was a plump woman in her late thirties, and she ruled the Keep's kitchen with a will of iron. She was Rory's younger sister, and like him, she had accepted the two newcomers at their face value and now paid no heed to rumours. From her they were able to get dispassionate accounts of the dead women, their friends and those friends' immediate family. Cait also told them the source of the rumours: Morag, Donal MacLeod's wife, and by implication, Donal himself.

Hard facts countered the running tongues. Those who had gone with Iain MacLeod to see the small gully by the loch, told others. Soon other rumours were spreading; that it made no sense to believe a stranger could have come to Glenfinnan unseen to take one of the chieftain's own horses, kill and leave again with no one knowing he'd been there. The clan should be looking closer to home.

The community was dividing, tensions were growing, and Methos knew it was only a matter of time before the killer would be forced to act.

Then on a damp evening, a messenger came to the kirk. The monk from St. Finnan's had arrived and Iain was not best-pleased. The Prior hadn't come himself but had sent another in his place: Brother Darius.

With Donnchadh on his heels, Methos hurried to the Keep, leaving Rory and Murdo to follow at the old priest's pace. They were taken up to the room above the hall, and a tall, angular man rose to greet them.

"Methos," Darius said, smiling, but the monk's eyes were fixed on the waterhorse just inside the door. "It's good to see you again, if sooner than I'd thought it would be. I hope you're taking care of our young Grant."

"Donnchadh has been more than useful. His tracking skills have been invaluable. Has Iain brought you up to date on our killer?"

"Yes. Tomorrow I'd like to see the account you've prepared."

"By then," Methos said with a grim smile, "it'll be complete, now that Seamus is back with the last two horses."

###

In the evening of the next day, after Vespers in the small kirk, the two immortals walked slowly to the edge of the graveyard, and Methos expanded on what Iain had already told the monk. "This is a nasty business," Darius said, sitting on the low stone wall. "Father Murdo is silenced by the confessional, Rory by loyalty and disbelief, and the Chieftain is being noncommittal. Who is your suspect, my old friend, or do you have more than one?"

"There's only one with the opportunity and the skills," Methos answered. "Donal MacLeod, the blacksmith. Hs wife was a close friend of Jenny, the last victim. All I need is proof. So far the binding is making sure Donnchadh obeys me, or I think Donal would be dead by now."

"An each-uisge." Darius shook his head in wonder. "He is a fine, handsome man. And he has the same kind of aura as we do. Does he heal the same way?"

"I don't know," Methos said sharply. "Darius, don't be taken in by that face. It isn't human, it—"

"Are we? Humans may or may not have sired us, but does that make us the same as whoever, whatever, did?"

"At least we have something of humanity in us," Methos snapped. "It has nothing!"

"We shall see," Darius said, smiling. "I had a chance to talk with him this morning, while you were with the Chieftain. Have you learned much from him?"

"Very little. I could command it, I suppose, and let the binding force its answer, but--" And he shrugged. He had no intention of telling Darius that he was regretting tying the spelled thong on its hair, but did not dare to take it off because it would leave him. He did not want to lose it. Not yet, while there was still so much to discover about the creature behind those dark, unreadable eyes, not to mention seducing it into lying with him.

"Where is he?" Darius asked, breaking his introspection.

"With Rory, listening to tales of Skye and past MacLeods," Methos said, an unwilling smile beginning. "It has a rabid curiosity about the world."

"Good. The more he learns of these people, the less likely he is to prey on them."

"No, it won't. Does it make a difference to a farmer when he kills the calf he's bred and raised from birth? The calf that he gave a name to and cherished? Don't be fooled by its handsome face and inquisitiveness. It sees the clan as its rightful quarry, just as it does the deer on the hills.”

"But--"

"And who's to say this man-shape is its true form? It could be the stallion, or something else entirely. I have a binding on it, but don't trust it, Darius. This is a dangerous beast."

"So are you dangerous," Darius said, unperturbed. "So am I. But," he went on with a rueful smile, "it seems to me that for all your years and wisdom born of experience, you are being deliberately blind. Why else would you persist in calling Donnchadh 'it', when it's plain to me, at least, that you care for the man."

"It isn't a man. It's an each-uisge, a particularly deadly shape-shifting predator," Methos said stiffly.

"Be careful," Darius said, voice grave. "It's a perilous thing, to fall in love with a Sidhe."

"I haven't," Methos insisted. "I won't. Just because I want it, doesn't mean I want to spend the rest of my life with it!"

"Oh, Methos...." Darius sighed. "They are wild and strange and fickle, more so than those who gave us birth."

"So am I." Methos bit out the words, his voice cold and hard. "Or have you forgotten?"

"I forget nothing, my ancient friend," the monk said gently.

It was time to change the subject, Methos decided. Or at least, to divert it along another tangent. "So what have you learned from the each-uisge?" he asked.

"That he has a quick mind and a ready wit." Darius smiled affectionately. "That he is fascinated by these people and looks on them as his own. That his liege is of the Western Sea, though he would give me no name."

"Mannanan," Methos said.

"Yes. One of the High Sidhe and not a power to be lightly crossed. This glen and loch were given to Donnchadh; he is part of it, and it of him."

"It told me it would lose the shape-shifting if it left."

"He told me that as well, and it saddens me. There are so many questions in him, so great a thirst for knowledge, it's a tragedy he'll never learn more than a few answers."

"What did it tell you of its life before it came to Loch Shiel?"

"Little. Only that his gifts were with horses and water, so that as soon as he reached his full adulthood, his lord gave him this place. He looks on it as an honour, almost a sacred trust."

"And eats them!" Methos snorted. He felt a stab of something that might have been jealousy. Donnchadh had not told him as much, nor as readily.

"So? A shepherd eats sheep," Darius said, turning his own words back on him. "That doesn't make them any less in his sight. The man has a soul, just as you and I, and you would do well to remember that."

Ensouled or not, the each-uisge continued to trouble Methos' thoughts, especially in the unquiet reaches of the night.

###

The rumours continued to proliferate, but one collection of facts was not common knowledge. It had been comparatively easy to match the recorded hoof prints to the individual horses in the MacLeod stables, once Seamus had returned with Brother Darius. Then the Chieftain, with Methos, Donnchadh and Darius in the background, had talked to Fergal Beaton and sworn the man to silence afterwards.

There were three horses that had been ridden for the murders, and at the night of each woman's death, that horse had been in the small paddock behind the forge, waiting on the smith's attention.

Of course, anyone could have taken the animals from there during the night or under cover of bad weather, but it was another piece of the puzzle.

Then another rumour raised its head; Seamus had overheard monks talking at St. Finnan's Priory. It seemed that half a dozen women had been raped and murdered at Shielfoot over the last handful of years, and every time Methos Traveller had been at the Priory. Now he was at Glenfinnan and Jenny MacLeod had died. Questioned by family and friends, Seamus not only denied it, he repeated over and again that he didn't believe it.

At each telling, Seamus became more insistent, and the rumour grew stronger. It was as if his refusal gave it credence.

Donnchadh no longer spent so much time in Methos' company. He was more likely to be found with Brother Darius. Rory MacLeod, previously so friendly with the man, went back to work on his crofting and found little reason to come to the village. At nights, Donnchadh slept at Rory's croft rather than the hall.

Methos was effectively isolated, or so it seemed.

Apparently unconcerned, he continued his work on Murdo's chronicle. For a second time he was copying out in a good hand the priest's record of the each-uisge and its predations. One copy would be going with Brother Darius to St. Finnan's, the other would remain with the priest. Methos was on the final accounts of Jenny's death and the finding of the killing-place, and he knew time was running out for him. Very soon now he'd have no excuse to remain in the area any longer.

Six nights after Brother Darius had come to Glenfinnan, Methos was roused from sleep in the hall by the unerring instinct of power approaching. He sat up. A couple of sconces still burned on the walls, and in their flickering light he saw Donnchadh standing in the main doorway, watching him. Methos gave a sigh of relief and got quietly to his feet, picked his way around the snoring bodies and joined it.

"He's made his move?" he asked, voice no more than a breath.

"Yes. He took your chestnut from Rory's paddock, pulled off its shoes and threw them into the burn. Rory's with Father Murdo now, in case he intends to strike at the old man and destroy the chronicle."

"Damn the man! Darius told him he was to follow the horse if it was taken! Too late for that now. You go to Murdo as planned, and I'll go to Iain. Then we wait."

"While he hunts." It was a growl of anger. "In my glen!"

"Not for much longer. Go to the kirk, and nowhere else. Wait for me there." He made it a command, and enforced it, implacable. "By the spell that binds you."

Fury darkened the each-uisge's eyes to black, and its lips pulled back from the very white teeth. "I'll have your blood for this!" it vowed. "His death is mine!"

"Go to the kirk," Methos repeated, and slowly, as if it was fighting every inch of the way, Donnchadh backed away into the darkness.

Methos returned to his pallet, pulled on his clothes and made for the small door to one side of the dais.

###

Early on the mist-shrouded morning, while Father Murdo sang the offices of Prime in the kirk, Donnchadh slipped silently into the priest's cell. Methos looked up from the vellum, met the still-angry glitter of the waterhorse's eyes, and put down the quill.

"What's happened?" he demanded, coming to his feet. "Who?"

"Cait, but all she has is a cut on the head where he hit her."

"Thank the gods. Go on."

"Donal MacLeod is at the Keep. He saw it happen, he says. He was on the high path to the peat cuttings and caught a glimpse of the man as he struck her down from behind in her own back yard. Donal says he yelled, and ran to the croft. The man had no chance to do more than rip Cait's bodice. He was on his horse and galloping off--a chestnut gelding. The hunt is gathering."

"Where is my horse?"

"I don't know. They'll be looking for it."

"Good. Iain will delay the start as much as he can. You go to Donal, then the kirk and you stay there."

Methos started for the door, but Donnchadh took his arm in a carefully firm grip. "He does know, this MacLeod Chieftain, that it wasn't you?" it asked.

"Yes. As Darius instructed, I spent the rest of the night on a pallet in Iain's bedchamber, with him and Lachlan watching turnabout all night, and had breakfast with them at dawn. Lachlan came with me to the kirk and stayed until just now. You must have passed him."

"I did. I told him and he's on his way to the rocks above the cuttings. I don't like this, Methos."

"Darius knows what he's doing. Trust him."

"Cait has been hurt."

"A crack on the head. She'll recover."

"This plan of yours and Darius' has already gone wrong. It could too easily go even more awry. I should kill him, now, before you--" And it stopped.

"Don't worry about me," Methos said. They were alone in the small room, so he leaned forward slowly. This time Donnchadh did not shy away, and their mouths met in a brief touch. Methos flicked his tongue tip gently over its closed lips and felt them part slightly, beginning to respond. He eased back and smiled. "You'll see," he whispered. "Darius is an excellent tactician and he's very wise. It'll all work out as it should, and afterwards--"

Donnchadh jerked free and turned for the door. "Afterwards," it said coldly, "I go back to my loch."

###

The rocks above the peat cuttings offered shelter from sight, but not from the fine rain. Low clouds clung to the hilltops, drizzle blurred distances, but Methos could see the two bands of men set out from the village. The larger one was mostly on foot, led by Iain on the grey mare. The other was a tight-packed group of seven riders, travelling fast towards him. Donal MacLeod was at the forefront.

"Damn!"

 _'He'll want you dead_ ,' Darius had said, _'so he'll need to make sure of you before the hunt finds you.'_ It was just as well that Methos had a talent for improvisation. He could use the peat stacks as cover and head back to the village and the kirk--then Donal's group split up into pairs, cantering off in different directions, leaving the smith on his own to rein towards the cuttings. Methos gave a sigh of relief and stayed where he was.

For a while, Methos watched the man ride closer. There was no sign of Donnchadh, for which he was grateful. The each-uisge would be in the kirk with Rory, Darius and Murdo, safe from any suspicion.

Except that it wasn't. A flash of red on the slopes below caught his attention: the Grant tartan. Donnchadh was running through the bracken, swift as a stag, making straight for him.

Methos swore again and broke from cover, sprinting to meet him.

"Are you insane?" he yelled, aware that Donal had spurred to a gallop. "Go back!"

"He has an axe!" the each-uisge called. "He swore he'd bring back your head--" And suddenly Donnchadh was falling, a boneless sprawl of limbs and plaid.

Methos spun round. Donal was yards away, on foot now and advancing slowly, a grin on his flushed face. He tucked his sling into his belt, tossed his axe into his right hand, and laughed. "I'm going to enjoy this, Sassenach," he said.

"Very likely," Methos said irritably, drawing his sword. "But not for long. Too many people know the truth, Donal. You can't murder them all."

"They know only what you've told them," the smith jeered.

"Iain MacLeod. Lachlan MacLeod." Methos began to circle away, closer to the rocks. "Father Murdo, Brother Darius. Seamus Beaton. Fergal Beaton. Rory MacLeod--" Donal lunged forward, axe swinging. It wasn't a battle weapon, but a long-hafted woodsman's axe, single bladed; it could do just as much damage if he let the man get close enough. He jumped back, sliding a little on the wet leaves. Tough bracken fronds tangled around his ankles, and Methos knew with chilling certainty this was going to go painfully wrong. "Will it give you the same kind of pleasure to kill a man as it does a woman?"

The smith didn't answer that; he didn't have to. The wet-mouthed craving on his reddened features was enough. Donal moved between Methos and the rocks where Lachlan was hiding, listening--or so Methos hoped. But were they close enough for the Chieftain's brother to overhear? He came forward, seeking to drive the man back, but slipped again. He caught his balance, but it was too late. Donal had seen his chance and taken it.

Driven by its own weight and the smith's powerful muscles, the axe bit deep, crashing through ribs, ripping across and down to tear out of his body just above the jut of his hip. Methos dropped his sword, clutching instinctively to stop the spill of guts from his belly, and lurched to his knees. The shock of impact kept the pain away for a moment, but he knew it would not stay that way for long. Donal circled him, bloodied axe held poised.

"Do I let you die, Sassenach, or do I give you the mercy cut?" he sniggered, features twisted and avid. "D'you think the clan'll believe your lies, or will they believe me, that you're the killer?"

The man was right, and Methos knew it. Even with their Chieftain's word on it, the clan would find it very hard to accept that one of their own was a rapist and murderer, while an outlander was always viewed with some suspicion. That ingrained mistrust of the foreign would work in Donal's favour. And the man had said nothing for Lachlan to hear that would conclusively prove his guilt. Darius' plan had failed.

"I have them!" Donal bellowed at the top of his voice. "To me! Clan, to me!"

Methos tried to speak, but could not. Blood flooded his ruined chest cavity, poured from the gaping wound, and his one coherent wish as the tidal wave of agony surged over him, was that he could hurry up and die.

Shouts and thudding hooves told him the rest of the hunt was not far off, and Donnchadh began to stir. It raised a hand to its bloodied scalp, then rolled over and pounced to its feet, lunging for the smith.

"No!" Methos croaked, hot liquid bubbling in his throat. "Leave him. Get away!" The each-uisge took no notice, but it could not get past the swing of the axe to the man wielding it.

"I have them!" Donal yelled again, backing away fast. "Over here! It was the Sassenach and the Grant between them! He boasted of it before I cut him down!"

Methos barely heard him. Darkness was webbing over his eyes and sounds were fading. Dimly he was aware of Donnchadh's hands on his shoulders, of a velvet voice edged with urgency--of the liquid-slide of his own entrails oozing past numbing fingers-- Then something was wrapped around his body: Donnchadh's shirt, he realised, the sleeves tied firm to hold in his guts. 'Get away,' he tried to say. 'I'm dead, leave me.' But speech was beyond him.

"No, you don't!" Donal howled and leaped forward, axe swinging for Donnchadh's unprotected spine. Swift as a thought the each-uisge came to its feet, spun on one heel and drove the other into the smith's barrel-chest. The man went flying back as if a horse had kicked him, and Methos' sight faded to black.

Dimly he felt his wrists gripped and tugged from beneath the makeshift bandage. With a twist and a heave his arms were pulled over Donnchadh's shoulders and he was lifted onto the creature's back, legs dangling uselessly. Agony took away what little breath he had. He could not even scream.

Disconnected from himself and with his life draining from him, Methos felt power gathering. It was the unmistakeable pleasure-pain of quickening fire, and the solid man-shape of muscle and bone carrying him became a different kind of mass. The distant shouts took on the high edge of panic, then the baying howl of angry men sighting a victim. His arms were locked around a heavy stallion-neck and his thighs seemed to be clamped to sleek bay ribs by a will that was not his own. But the binding was still in place, so the waterhorse could not shift its shape. Then why--how--and he died with the questions slipping beyond his reach.

###

Life came back with the same explosive agony that had heralded death. Methos drew in a rasping lungful of air and lay there, panting. The damage the axe had done was not lightly healed, and he was still weak, disoriented, but very glad to be breathing again.

Dappled light was above him, spangled red on his closed eyelids, as of sunlight through leaves. Water-sounds and bird-voices filled the air, carried on the scents of white clover and bruised grass. A light breeze moved soundlessly through the branches, cool on his flesh, and beneath him was rich turf. There was a steady bee-drone in his head, the thrum that spoke of another immortal--or Sidhe-beast--close by, and he did not doubt it was Donnchadh.

Methos opened his eyes, struggled to sit up. He was naked, his clothing bloody rags tossed in a careless heap on the edge of the clearing. His skin was whole, unblemished, but the new-healed muscles were sore and loath to obey his will.

"Damn," he said, the single mild expletive entirely inadequate to express his feelings. Then, "My sword. My pack. My horse."

"With Rory and Brother Darius still," said Donnchadh behind him, and padded forward, bare feet silent on the grass. "I can fetch them later."

"Are any of my clothes wearable?"

"Sark and jerkin, no, but you could wear my sark once the blood is washed out. Your boots, yes. Your trews, maybe, with some stitching." It drew a slanting line from the curve of its left ribs down across its belly to its right hip. "I didn't think you'd come back from that."

"My kind are hard to kill. How long have I been here?"

The each-uisge shrugged. "An hour, a day, it's not always easy to tell. Time is different here," it said. "Sometimes slower, sometimes faster." Clearly, it felt it was unimportant.

"You control it?" Methos demanded, unease chilling along his nerves.

"Of course not. It answers need, I think."

"Then I need to go back for my pack."

"Best wait for dusk, then."

"Whose dusk? Here or there?" he demanded, angry and concerned. "Do you think they'll wait on your pleasure before they come to kill us?"

"They won't. No one can find this island unless I bring them. They can't even see it."

"So we can't leave it. Damn you, each-uisge! Why did you follow me! I told you to stay in the kirk!" And it should have obeyed, just as it should not have been able to shape-shift. The binding was potent, he knew it was, and the thing was still tying back Donnchadh's hair, so why hadn't the cursed creature gotten rid of it, if it could so easily over-ride the spell?

"Because Donal had vowed he'd bring back your head. Darius had already told me that's the one way to release your soul and make sure your kind stay dead. I don't want that." Perhaps it hadn't found it so easy to act against the spell, and _need_ had driven it. Which meant-- Thoughtfully, Methos stared at the waterhorse, but Donnchadh would not meet his gaze. "You know mankind better than I do," it went on, gazing out to the veil of mist that hung between isle and shore. "Are they likely to turn on Rory and Murdo for sheltering us?"

"It's possible." Methos found his voice. Association, too, might well taint Darius.

"What will they do?"

"Bring Rory before the Chieftain for trial and execution, and send Murdo and Darius to either Abbot or Prior for trail and execution by the Church. And if Iain doesn't hold to what he saw on Jenny's body, Donal MacLeod is free to hunt again, while innocent men die and Darius is stuck in the middle of it all. Damn!"

"Our need, then, is to be at Rory's croft by midnight or there about."

"Yes."

"Then rest, so your body can finish its healing. We'll have the time. And then," it went on, "Donal MacLeod is mine."

"You can't just kill him," Methos snarled. "We have to prove his guilt."

"Why? I know he's the killer. That is enough."

"No, it isn't!" Methos sighed, and wished he didn't have to say it. The simple, straight-forward course was so tempting. "His clan must know his guilt, or else you'll be blamed for every unexpected death, whether you killed or not."

Donnchadh shrugged again, unconcerned.

"Rest," it said again, and walked away among the stand of trees. Methos started to get to his feet to follow it, but movement hurt, so he lay down in the shade and closed his eyes. The creature was right, he needed rest. "Damn," he muttered. The breeze from the lake was moving pleasantly over his nakedness, the mossy grass was cool and soft beneath him. "Damndamndamn…." Eventually his drowse became sleep.

When Methos awoke, he was still alone and had no idea of how long he'd slept. The residual ache of healing was gone; his body was his own again. And he was hungry.

Amongst his ruined clothing was his belt-purse. In it, as well as his tinderbox, Methos found a couple of bannocks; they were stale and broken, but still eatable. He sighed. Donnchadh hadn't come back yet, and shadows were lengthening. He must have been there for at least a couple of hours--how much time had passed for Rory? With so many witnesses to Donnchadh's shape-shifting, would the man hold to their friendship? Would Iain MacLeod? Or would the Chieftain choose to hunt the waterhorse who'd killed his son, rather than the madman who was killing his people? And Lachlan--he must have heard that shouted lie, known it for what it was, but more to the point, had he seen the lascivious hunger on Donal's face, recognised that for what it was?

Too many questions, and all of them unanswerable. So Methos put them from his mind. He was safe, if hungry, and reasonably comfortable. All other concerns could wait until he was in a position to do something about them. Instead, Methos washed the blood from his trews and belt, and put them aside. He'd have to wait until he could get the sewing kit from his pack to mend them. The shirt was beyond saving. By the look of it, Donnchadh had cut it from him rather than risk hampering the healing of the massive wound by moving him. So Methos washed the blood from the each-uisge's sark and hung it over a branch to dry. Then he explored his surroundings.

He was on an island, a small rocky island about four times the size of Rory's paddock. Rowan and larch covered most of it, though there was a sunlit stretch of clover meadow in the centre. There was no sign of any habitation: no trace of campfires, and the only place that would give shelter from the weather was an overhang of pale stone in a rowan grove. How far from the shore the island was, Methos could not judge. At about ten, maybe fifteen feet out from the water's edge, was a dense veil of mist, and he could see nothing through it. Frustrated, he returned to the edge of the meadow and stretched out on the grass, resigning himself to wait.

Approaching power touched his senses, and Methos sat up. Donnchadh was walking towards him through the slanting swathes of evening sunlight, moving with the smooth stride that was so much a part of it. Its cupped hands were held carefully in front of it at chest height. It glistened, water running in rivulets down its brown skin, and it looked pleased with itself.

"There's a storm over Glenfinnan," it said. "No one is hunting anything save shelter. Rory is safe in his croft and Darius is with Murdo."

"You've been across to croft and village?" Methos scowled. "Fool! If any saw you--"

"They did not. You think I can't go unseen when I wish it? I brought your sword and pack back with me, but not your horse. He's safe enough with Rory's pony. Well, apart from risking her teeth and heels. He'll take him to Iain's stable in the morning. He'll need to be reshod, though. They found him running loose not far from Cait's croft." It paused, studied Methos with a slight smile on its mouth. "Darius has another plan," it announced. "He said you won't like it, but he asks that you'll go with it."

Methos groaned and covered his face with his hands. "Curse the man! I hate his plans. I usually end up hurt or dead or both. Like this time!"

"He said you'd say that, and he said to tell you it isn't true." The each-uisge was grinning.

"Hah! What does he want me to do?"

"Go to Glenfinnan tomorrow at noon and let yourself be taken. Tell them the waterhorse sent you back for the killer of Jenny MacLeod. He says Lachlan doesn't doubt anymore, but many others still do. Darius wants a public confession from the man."

"And if they kill me before I get a chance to say anything?" Methos snorted in disgust. "They aren't accustomed to people coming back from the dead--especially one who some of them last saw trying to hold his guts in!" Then curiosity got the better of him "What are you carrying?" he asked suspiciously.

"Food," it said. "For you," and it knelt in front of him.

In the each-uisge's cupped hands was a heap of tiny strawberries, and Methos, who up to that point had been merely hungry, suddenly was ravenous. He took one and crushed it on the roof of his mouth.

The fruit was warm from the sun and Donnchadh's hands, its taste tart and sweet together, with a perfumed flavour like no other in his experience. He took more. "They're good," he said, and smiled. "Very good. Have one."

The waterhorse shook its head. "No, I--" Methos slipped one of the scarlet fruits into its mouth.

"You are not entirely carnivorous," he said, "or do you deny you have a fondness for Cait MacLeod's honey cakes? How is she, by the way?"

"She has a headache," said Donnchadh. "He dropped her with the slingshot, as he did me. I brought these for you."

"And I'm sharing." Methos put another to its mouth, pressed a little so that the juice stained the full lower lip.

"Oh," Donnchadh said, and took the strawberry. This was not the quick snatch that had taken the grouse-flesh from his hand not so long ago. It was a slow acceptance, eyes locked on his, aware and speculative, while strawberry and fingertips were drawn into a silken mouth.

Methos caught his breath. The warmth of arousal became an incandescent desire, pounding through his blood to centre on his groin and undermine his self-control. Carefully he eased his fingers free, traced the outline of that sensual mouth, watched the full lips part slightly under his gentle touch.

Fingers brushed lightly over his own mouth, and Methos smiled. He traced the curve of the dark eyebrow, cupped the clean-shaven jaw, and Donnchadh mirrored the caress. There was something like startled wonder in the creature's eyes and Methos did not need to be told that whatever it might have experienced with the young women, or with others of its own kind, what it was feeling now was of a very different order.

Confident there would be no refusal, Methos closed the small distance between them and took Donnchadh's mouth in a kiss that reflected the growing hunger in him. He ran his tongue tip over Donnchadh's lips until they opened, and he deepened the kiss, pressing closer. It tasted of strawberries, and its tongue began a slow duel with his, enticing him deeper.

His arms locked around Donnchadh's shoulders, Methos turned it and lowered it to the grass. It went without resistance, supple and pliant, its own arms reaching to hold him closer still. A joyous triumph rioted through Methos; the each-uisge was his for the taking, at least for a time, and he intended to use the advantage to the full.

He broke the kiss, and there was a quiet murmur of protest from Donnchadh.

"Hush," Methos whispered. He kissed his way along the jaw to the blood vessel that pulsed just beneath the skin of its throat, then down to the slant of the collarbone. He ran his tongue along the hard line, licking at the hollow where the two bones met, tasting the faint salt of sweat. Donnchadh moaned and arched beneath him, and Methos felt the heat of its shaft pressing insistently against his belly. His own penis was erect and throbbing, and he moved so that their erections slid together in a slow glide. Donnchadh cried out, its hips thrusting, trying to speed up the rhythm, and Methos laughed quietly.

Its eyes were wide and darkened to black, its lips moist from his mouth and parted. He was drawn to that mouth as iron to a lodestone, and he claimed it again, loosening the reins on his hunger and found his need matched by Donnchadh's.

That was when Methos discovered his desire was for more than gratification, more than mastery--to maybe bind the each-uisge to him by a tie far more potent than a twist of nettle-flax. "No," he ordered breathlessly, "not so fast. It's not a contest--let me show you what pleasure can be...."

Chest heaving, Donnchadh stilled beneath him. Slowly Methos shifted his weight so that he lay at its side, one leg folded over a long brown limb. He spread his hand on the flat belly, relishing the tautness of muscle and the implicit strength, then slowly stroked up through the fine black silk that grew across its chest and found a dark-aureoled nipple. It was already a hard nub and he teased it with a fingernail, then bent his head and drew it into his mouth, suckling gently. Donnchadh moaned, hands tangling in his loose hair. Methos nipped with careful teeth and heard his name sighed on panting breath.

Donnchadh freed one of its hands and reached for its penis, but Methos' hand was there first, closing firmly round the shaft below the swollen, glistening head. Timing a slow pump with each rhythmic suck of the nipple, he resisted his own body's urges and that of Donnchadh's, instead lifting them both to a level of almost pure sensation, holding them there while time spun away and there was nothing in the world except each other and the incandescence between them.

Abruptly Donnchadh moved, powerful body turning to pin him down momentarily, as if to warn him that he could not out-match it by brute strength alone. Then the each-uisge's hand was on his belly, gliding slowly up over the sleekness of his chest to the pale aureole. He gasped and laughed his delight, gasped again as his sensitive flesh was taken into a hot mouth, tormented by very sharp teeth, and suckled. At the same time, his cock was enclosed in a smooth, uncalloused hand and gently worked.

He was floating in a sea of pleasure, anchored by the increasingly confident mouth, but as Donnchadh's hand increased the pressure and pace, he took back control with a lithe twist. He pinned the wide shoulders to the grass and took that mouth in a demanding kiss. It opened for him, hungry to give and take, and Methos reached for its shaft again. He breathed in Donnchadh's moan as his hand folded around it, then slowly wove a pattern of sucking kisses from mouth to throat to nipple, to navel, and then finally, he lapped at the moisture-laden head that jutted above his fingers.

Donnchadh yelled and bucked, but Methos rode the movement, savouring the taste of pre-come, wanting more. He leaned his upper body across its belly, reached down and pushed its legs up and apart, giving him full access to the tightened sac and the opening beyond it.

With mouth and tongue and clever fingers he brought Donnchadh to a state of shuddering helplessness, then he moistened his fingers with saliva and pressed against the small ring of muscle.

There was no protest, no refusal. Donnchadh's passage was tight, but Methos slid one finger past the entrance, then a second. All the time he kept up a steady rhythm with his mouth and other hand, matching the rocking of the each-uisge's hips. Finally he pushed his fingers in to find the knot of nerves he was seeking, and began to suckle more strongly. Donnchadh shouted his name, body writhing, all rhythm lost in a surging drive that suddenly stilled for a brief moment. Then it yelled again, convulsing, and Methos' mouth was flooded with semen. He swallowed, sucking, avid for more, feeding on the each-uisge until its cock was flaccid and it was collapsed on the grass, panting for breath.

Quickly, Methos moved to kneel between its thighs, spreading its legs further, lifting them to cant Donnchadh's hips for his entry. The each-uisge's eyes blinked open, heavy-lidded, sated, as Methos nudged his aching shaft against its prepared opening. Then it stretched out a languid hand, stroked tenderly through Methos' tangled hair. It was all the consent he needed. Lubricated by saliva and his own pre-come, his penis was sheathed in the each-uisge with one long, slow thrust. Donnchadh made a sound that was part whimper, part sigh, its head pressing back, exposing the line of its throat. The long legs wrapped around Methos' ribs, locking tight enough to hamper his breathing but not his movement, and with a steady, gentle violence, Methos drove deeper. Internal muscles clamped around him, heightening his pleasure to a wild intoxication, and he could not hold back any longer. He rode swiftly to a shattering completion that left him drained and giddy with satisfaction, finally slumping boneless along Donnchadh's body.

The evening had become cool night by the time he moved, and the rising moon was flooding the meadow with pale light. The sweeps of clover seemed to glow, the perfume headier somehow than in the full heat of noon.

Deeply content and at peace, Methos stretched along Donnchadh's side, an arm and a leg possessively wrapped about the each-uisge.

The binding. A traitorous worm of doubt began to gnaw at him. How much of their union had been because Donnchadh had wanted it, and how much had been forced by the spell he'd put on the creature? The Sidhe were subtle, cruel and fickle, according to all the tales he'd heard. But he had consciously used the spell to coerce obedience to his hunger. The only difference, then, between him and Donal MacLeod was the degree of violence.

There had been a time in his life when he and certain others had ravaged through the lands with a ferocity and brutality that made Donal MacLeod's depredations seem like benisons. That was behind him and he would never return to the creature he had been then. But he had certainly gone partway back down that path.

Slowly Methos drew away from the sleeping each-uisge and curled around the growing pain in his heart. He could remove the binding--do it now while it slept. But if he did, then there could well be battle lines drawn between them. The Sidhe-folk had a fondness for revenge, and Donnchadh had justification. Methos did not want to have to kill it. So the binding had to stay.

For long hours he lay awake, nursing the ache of regret. If he could have been certain he'd reach the shore by Glenfinnan, he'd have swum away from the island and Donnchadh. Instead he used other defences. When the each-uisge awoke, he greeted it with his usual acerbic cheerfulness and did not speak of the evening before. To his relief, it seemed to expect no less. It was as if what they had shared had never happened, but was a dream outside of reality. Methos was happy that it should remain that way. Or so he told himself.

###

Water squelching in his boots and dripping from his hair, Methos trudged up the narrow beach. The gaping slash across the front of his trews had been stitched closed, and with Donnchadh's sark belted over it there was nothing at all to show that yesterday his intestines had been spilling from his belly.

Glenfinnan's fishing-boats were drawn up on the shingle, and he dropped his pack, leaning against one to take off his boots and empty them. Methos wasn't exactly sure when or how the transition between Sidhe-mist and sunlight had happened, but somehow he'd found himself a hundred yards off the village's loch-front, with no sign of island or its mist behind him. The sun was high in the pale blue sky, and there was a haze to the hills that promised rain in the not too distant future.

Methos pulled on his boots with some difficulty, slung his pack over his shoulder and carried on into the village. A child saw him first, recognised him and screamed. Its mother appeared and gathered it close, then looked up and saw--and screamed. Methos winced.

Clansmen came running, weapons drawn, and he was hedged around with blades and angry faces. He kept his hand away from the hilt of his own sword.

"The waterhorse healed me," he said, raising his voice over theirs. "It sent me back. I have to speak to Iain MacLeod."

"To confess before we take your head?" demanded Conn Mor. The tip of his dagger was under Methos' chin and it was very sharp.

"It healed me," Methos repeated impatiently, rising on his toes to keep the point from his flesh. "Why would it do that if I or it was the killer? It told me to come back here because the murderer still lives. That's all I know. I don't remember anything else, not how nor why, or even where I was."

"You are the killer!" The smith pushed through the gathering. "And in harness with the monster!" The axe was in his right hand, and Methos kept a wary eye on it.

The crowd grew restive, angrier. More voices were raised--some for Methos, some against. Iain and Lachlan MacLeod appeared, striding over the bridge from the Keep. Darius was between them and Methos breathed a little easier. Where, by Hel, was Donnchadh?

"No," said Rory, standing between Methos and Donal. "He's innocent. We've trailed the beast, some of us, and we know Methos Traveller and his horse weren't the ones who left those prints. Besides, when Jenny was taken, he was on his way from St. Finnan's. Or do you call Brother Darius a liar?"

"And when Cait was attacked, he was with me," Father Murdo said, coming forward.

The crowd parted instinctively for the Chieftain. Iain MacLeod held up his hand for silence. "The night before Cait was attacked," he said evenly, "and right up to the time Donal came to me with the tale, either I, Lachlan or Father Murdo were watching Methos. He was not out of sight of one of us in all that time. Whoever struck Cait, it wasn't him."

"Then it was the monster!" Donal shouted. "It's spelled him--all of us--"

Then Methos felt Donnchadh's presence, and smiled like a wolf. At the same time Darius gave a start, and turned to face the shore. "Merciful God," he said softly, and crossed himself. Slowly the snarling hubbub stilled as all eyes followed his gaze. A bay stallion was belly-deep in the loch and moving towards them at a steady walk. The heavy neck was arched, the ears flat back against its skull, and no one could doubt that this was anything other than a Sidhe-beast, hunting. It was powerful, magnificent, and utterly deadly.

All were silent, crofters, armsmen, children.

"I believe," said Darius into that silence, "the each-uisge has come for the one who preys on defenceless women and puts the blame on him."

"He's there!" Donal shouted, shoving Methos forward. "This is no waterhorse! It's a trick--"

There was a shimmer of energy around the each-uisge, a heat-ripple that blurred its outlines and coalesced into a blue-white haze. Donnchadh stepped out of the haze--a tall man-shape, naked and potentially lethal as a drawn sword. Methos felt the bone-deep shock of the clan as an almost physical blow, and the crowd edged back, leaving him and Donal isolated. The each-uisge came forward, moving with its own inimitable grace, eyes locked on the smith.

"My loch," it said. "My glen. My people. You do not hunt that which is mine."

"No...." Donal backed away, eyes wide with horror. "No--" Then it was as if the words were torn unwillingly from him; "They made me do it--un-manned me!" Startled shouts went up from the crowd, and Methos bit out a snarl of victory. "Their fault, not mine! They were sluts--harlots--and they taunted me! I needed--" Between one heartbeat and the next the man-shape became stallion in a flare of power and it surged forward, wolf-teeth bared. But those fangs did not meet in Donal's throat. Instead the each-uisge reared, fore-hooves striking the axe from Donal's grasp. It lashed out again and broke the man's chest. Donal went down, screaming, and the crushing hooves finished their work, hammering him into silence and bloody ruin.

The waterhorse turned away from the shattered body and faced Darius. For a brief moment, Sidhe and monk confronted each other, then Darius slowly raised his hand and drew the cross in the air between them.

"Go with God," he said steadily, "Whichever God that may be for you."

The stallion snorted and stepped forward, forcing Darius to move aside. It paced into the water, waded deep, then ducked beneath the surface and was gone.

In the near-hysterical confusion, Methos quietly edged to the back of the milling crowd and walked towards the Keep.

###

The small camp beneath the trees was oddly desolate. Methos had collected his gelding from the MacLeod stables and ridden away. No one had tried to stop him; no one had taken any notice of him. Now the long day was drawing to an end and dusk was fragrant about him.

But he had rarely felt as alone as he did now. Morosely he gazed out over the loch. He'd get over it, he always did. Maybe he'd come back this way in a century or so and find out how much the legend of the Loch Shiel waterhorse had grown, find out if it was still there, hunting from its Sidhe-misted island. Darius would be able to remove the binding and free it. Not that the spell had been as effective as he'd've liked. Still, it had served part of its purpose.

Of more immediate concern was his dust-caked sweatiness, and the loch looked inviting. Slowly he heeled off his boots, unfastened his mended trews and stepped out of them. He took off his sark--Donnchadh's sark--and walked into the water. It was cold, raising gooseflesh as he waded out, and he dived beneath the surface before cowardice could drive him back to dry land.

Methos resurfaced a stone's throw from the shore, floating in near-content now his body had adjusted to the temperature. The loch didn't have the caressing warmth of the Mediterranean, but on a day like this, it was a welcome relief.

The touch of power ghosted along his nerves, hummed deep in his bones. He lifted his head and gazed around, eyes straining, but could see nothing. Then he felt the disturbance in the deep below him, and warm hands slid up his back to close on his shoulders. With a wordless murmur of pleasure, Methos relaxed back against a broad chest. He lost awareness of the water. The only things in his world were the strength of the arms around him, the mouth that burned kisses along his throat and shoulder, and the urgent need they awoke in his blood. It was a need made all the more desperate by the knowledge that this could well be the last time he'd be with this enigmatic, maddeningly elusive creature.

Then Methos remembered caution, and the just cause for retribution against him, and tension took away compliance. Immediately he was freed and Donnchadh sank out of sight with no more than a slight turbulence in the water, leaving him bereft and relieved. Slowly he swam for the shore and climbed out. He dried himself with his sark, pulled on his trews over still-damp legs, grateful that there had been no--

Presence touched him, and he spun round. The each-uisge stood on the shore, watching him. Its features were unreadable.

"Where are you going?" it demanded.

"I'm taking Darius' account to the Prior," he said. "Darius will be looking for you. Go back to him. He'll take the binding from you."

"You do it."

"No. Better that he does. You have no quarrel with him."

Slowly Donnchadh moved closer.

"Take the binding from me," it whispered in its velvet voice.

"No," Methos said huskily.

"Why? You're afraid I'll kill you? Eat you?" It smiled, sensual and compelling. "I won't kill you," it said. "As for the other…." It bent its head and warm lips brushed along Methos' jaw, down the side of his throat, and he felt the wet heat of its mouth on the muscle where neck and shoulder meet. Felt, too, the teeth that nipped hard enough for him to feel their sharpness, but not quite enough to break the skin.

Then it turned on its heel and walked away.

"Wait!" he said, the word torn from him. Donnchadh stopped and glanced back. It smiled, cold and distant. _The Sidhe are subtle, cruel and fickle…._

"Your spell is weak," it said. It might have been commenting on the weather. "It cannot bind me. It has never truly bound me."

"You're leaving."

"Yes." And it continued towards the water. As always, Donnchadh moved with the controlled grace that was so much a part of it, each step seeming to root it to the ground yet leave it poised and light as a raptor on a lifting air. The long muscles were supple under the sleek warm skin, bunching and flexing with every silent step as it walked away.

Methos remembered the wild clover scent of that skin, the satin glide of it against his flesh, and something deep within him began to hurt. He remembered the smile that embraced with an unexpected gentleness, the rich peat-dark eyes that could draw him into their depths and dazzle him with their savage innocence, the strength that could gift him mastery and lose nothing of its pride. The hurt became an agony of loss. He wanted to plead, to beg, demand--command--but stayed silent. He did not have the right. This was no mindless beast but a thinking creature, and he'd been a slave often enough himself to know how such captivity would eat at the wildness within.

For a long moment Donnchadh stood motionless on a water-smoothed boulder by the edge of the loch, looking down as if in thought. Two more steps and the each-uisge would be diving for the deep waters between the jutting rocks. The westering sun touched him, painting shoulders and buttocks and the long, powerful legs with golden light, and Methos caught his breath on his longing.

Donnchadh pulled the binding from his hair and hurled it far out over the loch, and it disappeared with barely a splash.

"You should have used blood in the weaving," Donnchadh said. "My blood." Then he turned his back on the water. "I will travel with you," he said, "of my own will and if you wish it."

"I do," said Methos Traveller.

End


End file.
